


The Master Plan™

by peculiarblue



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Parks and Rec AU, Secret Relationship, and i haven't even written it yet, i'm literally in tears thinking about peter and mj saying 'i love you and i like you' to each other, me trying comedy but defaulting back to fluff, so chaotic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-05 10:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiarblue/pseuds/peculiarblue
Summary: Alternatively titled: The Master Plan for the budgeting, planning, and building of the world's greatest park, with a team of the greatest people in the greatest government in the greatest city in the worldA written proposal by Deputy Director of Parks and Recreation, Peter Parker





	1. Step 1: Identify Essential Personnel

**Author's Note:**

> i have seen every episode of parks and rec an unhealthy number of times, it's literally my emotional support show, i watch it every time i'm stressed/sad/contemplating life's true purpose, the usual
> 
> i was super stuck with another AU i started and couldn't get out, so i was watching parks and rec to feel better and thus... this shit show was born. i've literally never written like this before, so bear with me, but it was honestly so fun and like all things parks and rec does: cured all that was wrong and pulled me out of an awful writers block. I will probably continue to update this on a chaotic schedule in line with mental breakdowns i cure with leslie knope-isms :)
> 
> totally DO NOT have to know anything about the show to read this, the characters and plot are both kind of altered anyway, but for reference:
> 
> 2x23 — “The Master Plan”  
2x24 — “Freddy Spaghetti”
> 
> all i have left to say to this one folks, is yolo!

“And In the words of the great 19th century outdoorsman, Jack London, ‘You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club’. With those words loudly ringing in our ears, we proudly present our plans for a new park on municipal lot 48.”

“That is the most amazing thing I have ever heard.” A beat. “What are we reading again?”

Peter flips the freshly bound booklet of papers shut and smooths a hand over its plastic cover, “The master plan!”

“The master plan?”

“The _master_ plan.”

“Are we just going to sit here and say master plan until my lunch break is over?”

Peter attempts to toss the book up and over his desk and into Ned’s lap where he sits against the window, his usual spot, but 643 pages of office regulation 8x11 paper kind of adds up and Peter hasn’t even looked at his gym membership card in months so… he stands and proudly passes the book to his best friend, leaning across from him on the side of his desk.

“The yearly budget and planning proposal for a city is called the master plan. It’s mostly filled with boring bureaocratic language, so I try to spice it up,” Peter shrugs, adjusting the ends of his jacket sleeves.

Ned flips through the pages before settling on one and reading aloud, “‘So I say the function of man is to live, not to exist. I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot,’ Shit, dude, you wrote that?”

“Jack London, again, is it too many Jack London quotes?”

“There’s no such thing as too many Jack London quotes.”

Peter sighs and leans forward, scanning the pages as Ned continues to flip, “We are finally gonna get money to build our park.”

“Seriously?”

“In 15 minutes I am going to walk into the city manager’s office, I am going to read the hell out of this master plan, blow everyone’s mind—“

“And look fantastic while doing it, you’re welcome.”

“The pocket square is a nice touch, I’ll admit.”

“Screams ‘give me government issued money to build a state-of-the-art park on the pile of dirt in my best friend’s back yard’.”

Peter laughs and Ned hands back the book, “15 minutes and our 15 months of hard work finally pay off,” he beams, “13 if you had agreed to work on weekends…”

“But then you wouldn’t have had that badass parallel structure,” Ned winks and points.

Peter is just starting to respond when his favorite (read: nightmarish) office-mate spins his chair an excessively showy three times before pressing play on a bass-heavy Soundcloud song Peter is sure he spent the last 3 hours making instead of uploading the files he passed to him 3 weeks ago.

“Yooooo, Flashmob Lounge grand opening tonight! Ya boy has finally achieved his semi-permanent lifelong pipe dream of being part owner of a nightclub, and to celebrate, we’re offering an exclusive ‘Nerd Discount’ that cracks a quarter off your entrance fee.”

“What actual authority figure that you are working with allowed you to run a ‘Nerd Discount’?” Ned gawks.

“For you two bozos, sure,” Flash stands from his desk and cracks his knuckles with a stretch of his arms, leaves the god-awful club music blasting and starts to skip out the small office and into the department’s open interior, “Friends of Flash discount for everyone else.”

“I cannot believe you’ve worked with that guy for years and haven’t considered gauging your eyeballs out and/or moving to Canada at least 4 times a month.”

“Three times, actually,” Peter smirks, grabs his Master Plan™ and stands, gesturing for Ned to follow, “He means well. Does his work. Cares about it, just has a funny way of showing it. And besides, who would ever want to leave Pawnee, the greatest city in the country, if not the world?”

“That is about to have the greatest park in the world,” Ned boasts, affectionately punches Peter’s shoulder and stands with him, “Built and designed by the greatest deputy director…”

“For the greatest department in government,” Peter sighs, clutching the stack of 123,629 words typewritten on 643 pages with 211 helpful and colorful diagrams (and 2 Star Wars references, because, _duh_) close to his chest.

Call him disillusioned, naive, and totally biased, but Peter is convinced there is no better combination of people, places and things to have than what he’s got.

Friends, waffles, work.

Or waffles, friends, work.

(Doesn’t matter but work is always third.)

All of which were satisfied when his best friend Ned brought him celebratory waffles to eat the morning before presenting his 15-months in the making Master Plan™.

Friends, waffles, work.

“Oh my god, 12 minutes!” Ned yells and pulls Peter out of the office.

Yeah, bring it on, world. Peter’s got a plan.

“So come on down to the place _The Pawnee Journal_ has called the _sexiest_, most dangerous club in town—“

“Thats not what they wrote.”

“Fine…” Flash takes a pause in the middle of his showy pitch to the Parks and Recreation Department’s 3 other employees (plus honorary Ned), and deflates, “_I_ added the word sexiest.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look,” he claps his hands together just as Peter and Ned settle into the room, “You’ve got a discount, and I can guarantee you’ll get your pick of the hottest ladies in town,” he wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes Peter want to crawl under the table, “Also gentlemen, good morning Liz,” he waves.

“Ladies works for me,” she shrugs, stepping out of her office as well, unbothered by Flash’s extravaganza in a way most people spend their whole lives trying to achieve. She nods up at Peter, “You ready?”

Peter slides out from around the table and moves towards Parks Director Liz Allan (kind of terrifying on the outside to almost everyone, which is a fantastic skill to have in government, Peter has learned, and has not/nor will he ever acquire…) (…they make a good team).

“You’re leaving me here?” Ned mouths, eyes scrunched by way of desperate plead.

“Sorry,” Peter yells, striding out the door behind the click clack of Liz’s heels, “Things to do, places to go, plans to master!”

He catches a last glimpse of Flash clapping Ned on the back, saying, “You know, I am willing to generously teach you some of my ways, Nerd Leeds. Call me a romantic, but I believe by the end of the night I will have between one and four girlfriends…”

Peter hurries to keep up with Liz as she strides down the long main hallway of City Hall.

She nods down to the booklet in his hands, “That got bigger since I last saw it, Parker.”

“Well, I added some more diagrams, I didn’t really think the water fountain cover explanation was through enough.”

“I thought they were plenty thorough,” she chuckles, “Honestly, if people don’t understand why they can’t put their entire mouths around the spout of the water fountain, they’re asking to contract an alarmingly high amount of communicable diseases.”

“Right,” he laughs back, “But you know, I just—“

“How many?”

“How many…?”

“_Star Wars_ quotes,” she smiles, reaching the city manager’s meeting room door and holding it open for him.

He ducks his head and slowly steps in, “Two, that’s it. I swear.”

“Better than last year, Parker,” she laughs, “I’d worry you were ill from mystery water fountain disease if there weren’t at least one.”

“Alright, everyone settle down, we have a lot to cover,” The city manager, Paul, yells around the room and Liz pulls Peter to the left, third row from the front.

“Why are we sitting over here? We always sit on the right side so we can’t see the creepy mole on Al from divorce filing’s face or the fact that Joe from sewage is actively sending pornographic pictures from his flip phone.” Peter winces as he sits, “And now I can see it, Liz, I can _clearly _see it.”

“You saw his dick?”

“Can you please—“ Liz snickers as Peter squints his eyes shut and covers his ears like a child.

“Attention, everyone!” Paul booms again, and Peter sends one more sideways glare at Liz before gripping the Master Plan proudly.

This is it. Ready for anything. Peter Parker.

“Due to crippling gridlock in city council, we are postponing all planning and spending decisions indefinitely.”

Anything. Anything but that.

“Should we be panicking? I kind of feel like we should be panicking.”

“For once Flash, the words coming out of your mouth make sense,” Peter rubs a hand across his unnaturally sweaty forehead, “What is taking her so long?”

“Peter if you don’t sit down you might create a new fault line in the Earth’s crust,” Ned pleas, swiveling around the main office room in Liz’s chair that he stole from her office.

“What? That’s scientifically impossible—“

“But see, now you’re not thinking about the government cutting 40% of your department’s budget!”

“_Now _I’m thinking about it again!” He yells, pacing back and forth by the office’s front desk.

“Peter, there may be no need to worry at all. We don’t know what kind of cuts they’re making, these state auditors could be really nice people—“

“Seriously, Harrington? That’s insane, why would you even suggest that?”

“Be quiet Harring-dud!”

“Really, Flash? Harring-dud?”

“I cannot think straight when the fate of my moderately luxurious lifestyle sustained by my average government salary hangs in the balance!”

“You think they’re going to fire us?”

“I don’t know,” Peter throws his head back.

“They’re state auditors. They’re not coming to pat us on the back. They come to slash and burn!” Flash panics and drops his head on Harrington’s desk.

“I always have a plan for everything,” Peter start, calmly, then points to his best friend, “Ned, turn to page 592.”

Ned picks up the sadly discarded Master Plan™ :( (sad face included) and flips it open, then begins to read, “In the event the master plan meeting is cut short… in the event I have laryngitis and cannot present the master plan… in the event the master plan meeting is moved onto a boat—“

“I am literally prepared for every situation, expect the situation where there’s no master plan!”

“Peter, like we practiced…” Ned soothes.

“Count backwards from 1000 by 7s and think of warm brownies until Liz gets back.”

“Good afternoon, my den of testosterone,” Liz swings through the Parks office front door and drops a stack of files on the front counter, “Paul just got off the phone, state auditors will be here in 10.”

“How are you so calm?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t be,” Liz mumbles under her breath.

“I am two years away from my pension!” Harrington shouts.

“I’ll be sure to bring up that nice tidbit when I’m busy trying to help save our government from a full blown financial crisis, which, in case you were not aware, we are currently two steps away from!”

“How do you measure two steps from a—“

“Oh my god!”

“I’m just asking!”

“Look,” Liz steels herself against the back of the desk and eyes the room, “Its not ideal, I get it. But they’ve been sent by the government. They outrank us all. So don’t try to do that thing we seem to do every other week where we rally together and try to solve mundane problems as a team like we’re in a morale-boosting sitcom.”

“We never do that.”

“Peter, you basically write the script,” Liz deadpans, “And I love you for it, but this is above us. So I need everyone to take a breath, remember all the professional vocabulary from those flashcards I gave out, don’t chuck paper clips at their heads, and make sure your flys are up, Flash, looking to you.”

“That was one time, Allan!”

“Hello, hi, Parks and Recreation?”

Everyone’s heads turn immediately to the office’s entrance, where two women step in, a short blonde with a perfectly pressed navy blue dress, followed by a taller woman, who Peter is equal parts terrified by and in awe of. (40-60, really, any woman who wears a pantsuit is automatically a boss ass bitch).

“Totally thought you’d be dudes.”

Ned chucks a crumpled piece of paper at Flash’s head.

“That’s us, I’m Liz Allan, this is Peter Parker,” Liz gestures behind her before taking the blonde woman’s hand to shake it, and laughs nervously, “That’s everyone else, sorry about them.”

“No worries, Liz Allan, Peter Parker. Love your tops. Do you guys always color coordinate? We should totally do that Mich,” and Peter’s never seen a more chipper handshake in his life, is sure he’s never felt one once she moves to his extended hand, and looks back at her partner behind her all without breaking the most blinding eye contact Peter’s ever been a part of. Seriously. Eyes like the sun.

“Yeah, I think we’d just clash.” The woman behind the desk (‘Mich’?) is the complete opposite of the woman in front of them, devoid of most of the major human emotions and hasn’t made a move to circle out form around the front desk yet. Just swings her briefcase and bites her lips together.

“You’re right, but it would be so fun,” sunshine woman laughs, and Liz and Peter painfully try to echo, “Gosh, where are my manners? I’m Betty, this is my partner Michelle.”

“_These _are the state auditors? What happened to all that slashing and burning you promised us, Parker?” Flash scoffs as he fidgets in his seat.

“We understand what you guys may think about us, don’t worry, we get it a lot,” Betty says softly, her sunshine beams for eyes hitting everyone in the room, “That’s why I want you to instead think about us as repairmen.”

“Well-dressed repairmen,” Michelle quips, sarcastically.

“We are sent from the state budgeting office, and our job, to put it simply, is to come in and tinker with your budget a little,” she shrugs, “I like to think of it like we’re fixing a carousel, a really fun carousel, right?”

She nods, waits for everyone in the room to nod back with her before continuing, “Fresh coat of paint, maybe a new speaker system, and get everyone back on their horses where they belong, okay?”

When it’s evident this question is, in fact, not rhetorical, Peter shoots a sideways glance at Liz and offers a weak, uneventful, “Okay!” in response.

Betty seems to take it, smile beaming as she claps her hands together and starts stepping back, “Fantastic, I love all of you guys, can’t wait to work with you, but Michelle, she can’t wait even more than I can’t, if you can believe it, so I’m gonna head off, look for those buckets of paint,” earns a weak laugh, “And Michelle is gonna hang out here for a bit!”

She waves and steps out as quickly as she entered and if he had not felt the life-altering optimism in her grip just seconds before, Peter is sure he would believe he had imagined her altogether.

Michele lets out a large sigh and finally steps into the room, eying Peter and Liz, “Directors, conference room?”

“I love your hair,” Peter says, sitting across from the second half of the state budget team in their tiny conference room. He doesn’t know why he says it, he might not even have known he consciously said it if Liz had not kicked him under the table. It’s a true statement, her hair is gorgeous, she’s gorgeous, Peter can admit, even if she hasn’t stopped scowling at the papers in front of her since the moment they sat down.

But, not wanting her to mistake his over-excited and natural word-vomit for creepiness, he tacks on, “And your pen. Love it. I also, too, uh, write with a pen.”

Liz heads straight for the stiletto heel in the shin after that one.

“So I’d like to talk about where you think there is waste within your department.”

“There is none,” Peter rushes to say, and Liz leans back in her chair.

“Lets start with personnel—“

“We already operate with one of the smallest teams in City Hall.”

“And operating costs are still too high. Flash Thompson?”

“Universally adored, just, really great guy, loves his job. If you fired him, there would be a revolt.”

“_I’ll_ fire _you_ for lying, Peter,” Liz whispers.

“Look, Mr. Parker, you need to understand that not everything in here is special just because you want it to be. Just to keep this town afloat, we need to cut every department by at least 40%. That doesn’t exclude you, or your team.”

Peter’s jaw kind of falls slack for a second, open and closes like its manually hard to suck in air, so Liz leans forward and knocks her interlocked hands on the table, “I think, what Peter and I are just a little lost on is that Betty seemed to think we just needed to, ah, _tinker _with things and you’re suggesting a lot more than that.”

“Yeah, because Betty knows that sounds nicer than ‘we’re going to gut it with a machete’.”

(Back to 50-50 terrified, maybe 60-40, hot pantsuit be damned.)

Peter regains the power and gift of speech just in time to steel his eyes on Michelle and state, “You’re a jerk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Easy—“

“I’m sorry, but these are real people, in a real town, working in a real building that has feelings.”

“The building, has feelings?” Michelle says, brows furrowed together and body pitched slightly towards Peter.

“I don’t know, maybe. A lot of history in this one maybe it does.” Peter pouts, “How can you be so blasé about this?”

“Because I didn’t cause these problems, Mr. Parker, your government did.” Michelle tucks the papers back into a folder and slams her briefcase shut, “I’ll get what I need from the spreadsheets.”

And slams the door behind her.

“Not a sitcom, Peter. We don’t live in a sitcom.”

“Why are we here?”

“Because we had a shit day and the only cure to shit days is to blackout and forget the shit day existed by downing mystery alcohol in Flash’s strange Bar-Lounge.”

“The discount wasn’t even real! 25 cents off, man.”

“I mean, he did say we’d get a quarter off,” Peter presses into the dark bar and finds an empty couch.

Ned slides into the spot next to him and places down two beers, sitting uncomfortably as more of Flash’s strange music mixes blast to the beat of flashing colored lights.

“To crushed hopes and dreams!” Peter picks up a beer and taps the top with Ned’s, before chugging.

Ned finishes a gulp, then slams the bottle down with a new force, “No, you know what Peter? Blacking out is not the only way to get over shit days. _You_ are in control, you can make a new plan!”

“I don’t know, I might be all planned out,” he gulps back the rest of his beer.

“You know what, my plan—” Ned starts, standing up, “More beer, then more plans.”

Peter rolls the empty bottle in his hands, “To more beers and plans!”

“Oh my god, Nerd Leeds and Penis Parker, in the Flashmob Lounge!” Flash runs over and claps Peter on the shoulder, “The whole Parks team is here, even the sunshine twins!”

“Noooo, mean Michelle?”

“Who’s mean Michelle?”

“You know,” Peter nods, sees the couch move and Ned’s hats multiply on his head, too many more beers into the night later, “Mean Michelle. In the black pantsuit with evil in her eyes.”

“Oh my god, mean Michelle.”

“She’s talking to Liz! Oh my god!” Flash steals Peter’s beer and takes a swig, which makes Peter’s insides churn (but he’s also totally trashed and could throw up any minute), “She’s telling her who she’s firing!”

“No she’s not, stop freaking us out!” Ned shouts back, even louder.

“Why are you worried? You don’t even work with us!” Flash scowls back.

“Why are you even here?” Ned steals Peter’s beer from Flash, and he too, takes a sip, “Don’t you have one to four girlfriends to be entertaining?”

“This is part of the game,” Flash tosses a bottle cap at Ned’s fedora, “Plant the seed, harvest like a half hour later.”

“No one is going to have those bottle caps,” Peter shakes his head.

“No one.”

“Screw you guys, man,” Flash stands up quickly and leaves to go prove them wrong with a bottle cap harvest, “I want that discounted quarter back.”

“Oh my goooood, Ned,” Peter tips his head back on the couch, “You know what’s so thirsty?”

“What?”

“What’s so weird? How thirsty I get when I’m weird. When I’m drunk,” he punctuates.

“We’re drunk?” Ned laughs, smile stretching on his face.

“Yeah!” Peter giggles back, “You know why? Because I had a master plan, and it all blew up in my face—“

“Kaboom!” Ned sound effects with hand motions to follow.

“And it’s all because you came to a town hall meeting because there was a giant pit across the street from your house, and you needed me, Peter…”

“Peter Parker!”

“Right, me, to fill it in, and we became friends, like _the best_ friends!”

“Totally the best.”

“And filled in the pit and are gonna make it into the world’s greatest park. And that is so awesome.”

“I love you,” Ned yells, hand on Peter’s shoulder, “Dream team.”

“Dream team!” Peter laughs back, “Are you thirsty?”

“Are you thirsty?” Ned repeats, like Peter just told a joke, “More beers!”

“More beers!” Peter echoes, and watches as Ned stumbles out from the small couch lounge and towards the bar.

After he watches the couch next to him spin in a figure-8 pattern for a while, Peter spots Ned running back to their seats, two beers in hand and panicked expression on his face, “DUDE!”

“What?”

“Mean Michelle, is coming here!!”

“Dude, what do I do?”

“Peter, you have to be so professional, like seriously, get classy—”

“I can do classy,“ Peter pulls at the hem of his shirt.

“So professional, _oh my god_, she’s here…” Ned squeals.

“Hello, Michelle,” Peter blinks rapidly, crosses his ankles in front of him, and extends a hand up, bent at the wrist, like he’s a medieval princess waiting to be courted.

Michelle squints at the gesture and squirms to shake it, tentatively.

“Look, uh, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, so I heard about the discount,” a nervous laugh, she tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, “And just wanted to stop by, with my extra quarter, and say—“

“Save your breath!”

“What?”

“Just, you can leave, you _should _uh, leave,” Peter says, head quirked and eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“This is a party with all my friends, and you’re trying to fire all of my friends so honestly, you’re making this party awful,” he adds, and Ned nods in affirmation.

“I’m not trying to fire all your— you know what, I’m sorry,” she points to Ned.

“Oh no, I don’t work with him, I’m just like, the best friend who’s always around for emotional support and comedic timing.”

“And amazing pocket squares,” Peter stage-whispers, and it makes both the boys drunk-giggle.

“But I’m serious, Michelin Star Jones,” Peter swerves his head back up to Michelle, eyes cold and fixed, “I talked to everyone in this bar and _no one _wants you here.”

“Everyone? That must have taken a long time,” Michelle rocks back on her heels, glancing around the bar.

“It took a very long time, you’re welcome!” Peter’s words sound kind of sloshy, but he sits up straighter and keeps looking at Michelle, “I think you’re a cold and callous person who wants to kill people with machetes, and Ned is so right, I’m just gonna keep being me, and make more amazing plans, and you can just be you and make kids on carousels cry.”

“Right,” Michelle sighs, and with a slight waves steps back, “Sorry to bother you, I’ll uh, see you, see you tomorrow?”

Peter kicks back on the couch and follows her path out the door, watches her push past Flash and Betty and Liz before she’s gone.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“That was _so _professional.”

“Is this what the plague felt like?”

“Don’t talk,” Peter shushes Ned, walking past him in his chair and drops his jacket on the top of his chair, “Hurts so much. And we didn’t even _forget_.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ned rubs his temples, “I half remember making out with someone but have no idea who it was.”

“Oh my god, you’re insane.”

“No hints, nothing, just a very vague memory of one of the greatest kisses of my life.”

“Peter! My office, now!”

Peter smashes his head on his desk and groans at Liz’s yell, “Looks like I’m not living to see the mystery solved.”

He quickly shuffles out of his room and across the office towards Liz’s.

“You have a nice night, Peter?” She starts, arms crossed at her desk while he settles into the chair across.

“Have had better,” he nods.

“Really? Because it sounded like you _really _enjoyed your second, very _loud _conversation with Michelle, the state auditor who holds your very fate in her hands like a tiny bird!”

“Liz, she deserved it!” He knocks his head on the wall behind him, eyes shut.

“I don’t care!” Liz, yells, huffing out a hot breath, “Do I look like I care? Because I don’t. I can’t have you getting yourself fired before we even start!” She leans back in her seat, eyes poring into Peter’s and he honestly wishes Betty’s UV rays were staring at him instead. “Go apologize.”

“I don’t have anything to apologize for! All I did was express myself,” Peter starts, squirms in his seat, “Forcefully, drunkenly, and I spit on her a little, okay yeah,” he stands up and begins to exit, “I’ll go apologize.”

Peter has plans for everything. He had plans when he was six and strategized all the places he could sit on the bus ride to kindergarten. He had plans for college applications and college classes and college graduation. He has plans for giving birthday gifts and when to go grocery shopping so he’s never pushing a shopping cart in the rain. Peter Parker plans everything. He is the Master Planner™.

But for some insane reason he can’t find an explanation for, all planning goes out the window wherever Michelle is involved.

It’s like he forgets the alphabet, can’t think three steps ahead like usual. He just feels like mush. No plans. Nothing.

And it is with zero plan at all, for the first time in his life, that he marches into Betty and Michelle’s office after downing two tylenols and six pep talks from Ned.

“Peter Parker!” Betty chirps, placing a post-it down on her desk, “Welcome, welcome! Don’t mind me, just color coding my spreadsheets!”

“I love color coding spreadsheets.”

“Oh my god, we should compare gel pens,” she smiles, rifling through a desk drawer.

“Actually, I’m here to talk to Michelle,” he says, swinging his hands behind his back.

“Oh great, I’ll look for those extra rainbow post-its I have for you!”

“Thanks,” he nods, then turns to face Michelle’s desk, takes a step forward and pulls out the chair in front of her. She doesn’t look up from her (very bland definitely not color-coded) sheets of paper.

“Um, so I’d just like to apologize for yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she purses her lips together, pushes up the light pink sleeve of her blouse and picks up her pen again (and she’s objectively pretty so, still, 50-50).

“No really, what I did was out of line, twice, and I was just kind of worked up because obviously,” he pushes his chair closer, “you represent a threat to me and my department—“

“Your city council and your Mayor are the threats to your department, not me.”

And no matter how hard he tries to stick to plans he doesn’t have around pretty Michelle Jones the scary state auditor, he keeps managing to lose his mind.

“Okay look, I don’t appreciate your attitude, you may hold my fate like I’m a tiny bird, but I still think you’re kind of an ass.”

“Do you wanna get a beer?”

Peter has to be imagining things, there’s no way—

“Uh, it’s like 10:30 in the morning.”

“No, yeah I know. You seem like you could use a beer,” She pushes herself away from the table, slaps a folder shut and grabs her wallet. She makes for the door waving to her partner, “Betty, we’ll be back.”

“Have fun! Peter, I’ll have those pens when you return.”

“Surprisingly, this tastes really good.”

“When you could use a beer, you could use a beer,” Michelle sits beside him, taking a sip of a beer of her own.

“Let me try this again,” Peter steadies with a breath, “I am sorry for yelling at you three times. It is so embarrassing, I literally _hate_ yelling. I don’t know why I keep doing it when I’m around you.”

“Because you obviously don’t hate yelling,” she smiles “No one does.”

“And you keep being nice to me, which I really appreciate, but the point of all my yelling really, is that I just don’t think you know anything about my department. I am really passionate, maybe too passionate, about my job and the people I work with and who I’m working for so it just feels weird to be reduced to numbers. I think we’re more than that.”

“I get it,” she nods.

“Do you?” Peter eggs on, “Like, really, have you ever worked in a government body before?”

Michelle seems to think about that answer for a while, eyes closed shut before taking another sip, “Mhm, ever heard of a town called Partridge, Minnesota?”

Peter shakes his head. Michelle continues, “When I was 18 I ran for mayor of my small town… and won.”

A beat. 2 more sips. And then—

“Holy shit, you’re Mayor MJ?”

“The one and only.”

“Oh my god, that’s insane,” Peter laughs, Michelle tucks her head and flushes, “For what its worth, I was ridiculously jealous. You lived my dream.”

“Oh no, it was a nightmare,” she says, “18 year olds are fun and all, but they’re idiots. I ran the place into the ground and was impeached within 2 months.”

“No.”

“And then I was grounded.”

“No!” Peter laughs, swirls the beer around in the bottle and watches Michelle bite her smiles back.

“Yeah, so, you shouldn’t be jealous. It kind of ruined my life,” she sighs, “I am stuck here, balancing budgets to show people I’m responsible, so maybe one day I can run for office and not be laughed at.”

And maybe Peter kind of gets it. She cares about her job because it means something to her. Scheduling elementary soccer teams means something to him, and he wants to keep doing his job. She’s just doing hers, because it means something to her.

Also she’s totally a badass. Beer at 10 am.

“So was getting grounded really the worst part?” Peter says, “Because I’d be haunted by my choice in swearing in ceremony song.”

“Oh god, can we not—“

“Oh is that the bill? Please, Madam Mayor, let me,” Peter quips, pulls out his credit card and smacks it down, while singing, “_Whoomp! There it is!_”

“I hate you,” Michelle sighs, pushing out of her chair and shrugging on her jacket, “That song _so _haunts me.”

And so now Peter sits, Master Plan™ in hand once again, but this time, it’s a little simpler, a little cut back, because he had a plan.

And it was going to be okay.

“Okay, Parks and Rec, you’re up,” Betty claps as she pushes her door open to where Peter sits with Liz and Ned. She makes scarily positive eye contact with Liz on the left wall, Peter on the couch and then—

“Ned Leeds!”

“Oh my god.”

“You get home okay last night?” She chirps.

Ned sinks into the couch.

“Betty!” He squeaks out, “You— uh… yeah…” he chokes, “We should talk.”

“Totally, great to see you again,” she smiles, swings the door open, and Liz walks in, “Ned Leeds.”

Peter stands, jaw slack and eyes wide at his friend, and whispers “Betty Brant was your makeout girl?”

“It makes so much sense now.”

“We should talk, later,” he nods quickly, following Liz, eyebrows dancing, “_Ned Leeds._”

When they’re in the room, things happen pretty quickly. Betty may have a lot to talk about with Ned, but not much to say in the budget meeting with Peter and Liz.

“Things in Pawnee are a lot worse than we originally anticipated. The government is shut down.”

* * *

“Believe me, everyone _no one _is more upset about this than I am, not that it’s a competition,” Peter says, “But if it was I would win, just saying.”

“All parks are closed until further notice,” Liz says, sitting next to him at a town hall meeting two days later, met with a chorus of complaints from the rows of people in front of them.

“What about the Freddy Spaghetti concert tomorrow?” One woman stands and says, “My kids looks forward to it every year, and with he parks closed…”

And there’s a lot that Peter has reined it back in for over the past 48 hours (yes, he has tried to schedule 14 meetings with Michelle to discuss potential budget plans, but thats here nor there), but he feels like this is where he needs to draw the line.

Freddy Spaghetti.

“Freddy Spaghetti?”

“He’s a children’s singer, changes the words in popular music to names of pasta,” Peter nods, flipping through binder stacked on Ned’s couch, “It’s not really as uncomfortable as it sounds.”

“Really? Because I don’t think there’s any way it’s _not _the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever imagined.”

“_Itsy, Bitsy, Yellow Polka-dot Linguini_ is really good,” Peter smiles, “And he will sing it today for the children of Pawnee. We host this concert series every year and I’m not letting a government shutdown stop that.”

“Look, I really admire the optimism, but Michelle is _never _gonna let this happen and you know it,” he pushes some Freddy Spaghetti albums to the side to make room to sit, “Didn’t she tell you Idaho had to cut their budget by 80%? And Idaho is basically one giant park.”

Peter shuffles around him, with Linguini sings on loop in his head instead of how he does not have the approval or money to put this on.

“Maybe I should just call—“

“Bad idea, dude.”

“I mean, it won’t hurt to ask…” he sing-songs, already dialing.

“What do you need, Parker?”

“Michelle,” Peter chirps into his phone, “How are you?”

“I already know about the concert, and I know Betty has told you, it really can’t happen.”

“I know you think I’m some crazy Parks guy, but this is really important—“

“You’re not some crazy Parks guy, you’re just crazy,” she laughs on the line, “And unfortunately, Parks is not as important as you want to believe.”

“You’re just saying—“

“I’m literally staring at a flow chart in my office right now, you know what it looks like Peter? There are four levels,” she starts, “The departments of the Pawnee government, in order. You know where Parks is, Peter?”

“The top?”

“Level 4, non-essential,” she quips. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”

“How can she say I’m non-essential?”

“I literally told you not to call her.”

“But creepy Joe from sewage? _He’s _essential? _His programs_ keep running?” Peter does his frantic sweaty pace around Ned’s living room, “You realize that means Pawnee’s kids are _less _important than poop tubes.”

“Well when you put it that way…”

“That’s it, that’s the way it is Ned.”

“Dude, hold on…” Ned hold s hand up and flips to face Peter from behind the couch, “If all the parks are closed, just have the concert on the lot across the street.”

“Oh my god,” Peter beams, “Are you sure you don’t wanna work with me?”

“A healthy separation, Peter.”

“Are they going to show up?”

“A— yes, B— even if they don’t, I can totally make arrangements to do it alone, but C— yes, yes they will, although D— maybe not—“

“Peter Parker, your angels have arrived!”

“You did not just compare us to _Charlie’s Angels.”_

“What? It’s a totally badass film.”

“You know they’re remaking it with that chick from _Twilight_?”

“Seriously?”

“Your coworkers are so chaotic, dude,” Ned smirks at Peter as Liz, Flash, and Harrington arrive on the lot that’s currently being set up by volunteers and donors Peter pulled together over the past three hours.

“Yeah, but they’re here,” Peter beams, “And that’s kind of amazing.”

“Sorry, we would have totally been here sooner,” Flash boasts, stopping next to Peter, “But they were waiting on me and my girlfriend. We had dinner last night. Breakfast this morning. What were we doing in between?”

“Please don’t—“

“Flash, you ruin every perfectly good—“

“Sex stuff, there I said it,” he shrugs, pushes up his sunglasses and wraps an arm around the girl beside him.

“You guys know Flash really well, right? So I don’t have to apologize for his behavior?” she laughs.

“Totally, really glad to have you here.”

“Happy to help.”

“Okay everyone,” Peter starts, arms crossed over his chest, “What we’re about to do might not look like a lot to some people. It isn’t going to make all the problems in our town go away. But it is going to make a lot of people happy. Everybody ready?”

“I think I should pick up Mr. Spaghetti in my Benz, he needs the star treatment, obviously.”

“You’re not getting out of setting tents up, Flash.”

“But my shirt is Ralph Lauren! Think of the pit stains!”

Within hours, abandoned Lot 48 that according to the Master Plan™ is supposed to be park, has been transformed into a joyous concert space. Peter is directing volunteers with folding chairs when Liz suddenly runs up to him, flustered and out of breath.

“Hey, Peter!”

“Liz, you okay?”

“Great, fine, wonderful, really,” she says, bouncing on her feet, “So listen, here’s the situation—“

“I have everything you’ve ever said that comes after that phrase.”

“They’re coming.”

“Who?”

“State auditors,” she chokes, “I accidentally let what you’re doing slip while on the phone with Michelle just know.”

“Why were you on the phone with Michelle?!”

“You know I’m on that sadistic budget slashing task force thing! And I told Betty I was having lady issues in order to get down here, but apparently Michelle had business she couldn’t settle without me, and in a shocking turn of events, _I like my job, _so I answered and told her about the concert in order to try to save government jobs.”

“You what?”

“I know, me? Saving our jobs in this wack department? It’s been a weird day,” she pats one hand on Peter’s shoulder, panicked, “So I feel like if you have any sitcom tricks up your sleeves, now would be the time to use ‘em, Parker.”

And, shit. Nothing up these sleeves. (Except for pit stains, Flash was right. Business wear _not_ ideal for summer concert set-up.)

“Parks department!” Peter turns at the sound of Betty’s cheerful yell, running down the grassy lot and hopping up on the stage, “Great to see everyone. I think your dedication and work ethic are truly admirable, and you’re what gives small towns like Pawnee it’s heart. And now I think Michelle has something to say...”

“Yeah, we’re shutting this down.”

It’s like ying and yang. Peanut butter and jelly. Sun and moon. Only ten times more polar opposite and dream-crushing.

(Peter heard a rumor that Michelle and Betty used to work on budgets alone, but with Betty nothing got done, and Michelle got death threats. Together it seems to work.)

“Really?” Betty pouts as Michelle walks up to the front of the stage, the Parks employees gathered around its center, “I mean look at this, there has to be some way!”

“Nope.”

“Sorry guys, Michelle says no,” Betty concedes and hops off the stage, tossing a water bottle to her partner, “Everyone stay hydrated.”

Liz wants sitcom? Peter was _born _for sitcoms. Bring on the laugh track. Inspiring morale-boosting monologue is practically his middle name.

“I’m sorry but we are not cancelling this concert,” Peter strifes up to the stage, face to face with Michelle, “Look the stage is set up, everything was donated by local vendors, we have plenty of volunteers...”

And right on cue, his trusty team, Liz and Flash and Harrington and Ned, all crowd beside him.

“Everyone here believes what we are doing is essential,” Peter says, proudly, “And so Freddy Spaghetti will sing.”

“Uh, Parker?” Flash whispers, “I was meaning to tell you, I just found out Freddy Spaghetti ain’t singing.”

Peters jaw sets tight and he points one finger at Michelle as he slowly backs away.

“Freddy Spaghetti might now sing, but something amazing will happen.”

Fuck. Sitcom timing is awful.

“What happened? We’ve had him booked for months.”

“When we cancelled the other day because of the shutdown, he took a gig in Eagleton.”

“No!”

“In a library.”

“I literally can’t think of a worse place in the entire world.”

“Okay, everyone, this is fine, we’ve come back from worse situations.”

“Did you not hear him Peter? A library... in _Eagleton!_”

Peter flares at Flash, one hand pressed against his forehead, “I cannot believe I am about to suggest this but Flash, can you DJ kids music.”

“What do I look like, Kidz Bop?”

“Families are getting here, what do we do?” Ned says, stress eating an artery-clogging turkey leg from a nearby vendors truck.

“Turn Flash into Kidz Bop!” Liz yells.

“I am not sacrificing the integrity of the music empire I have spent years building just to save some noodle guy’s flaky ass!”

“_What_ music empire?” Liz asks, annoyed, reaching for a bite of the stress-turkey leg from Ned.

“Okay, I’ll just...” Peter looks between the stage and his team, “Just back me up if things get weird.”

Without really thinking, Peter runs through the crowds of kids and parents seated on the lawn and jumps up the stairs, grabs the mic stand in the center of the stage.

“Hello everyone, welcome to Pawnee’s Annual Summer Concert in the park, so glad you all could make it,” he starts, met with a hiccup of applause.

“Unfortunately, though, someone could not make it. Uh, Freddy Spaghetti that is,” he chuckles nervously to the sounds of some confusion in the crowd, “He uh, bumped his noodle.”

Everyone laughs, the kids find it funny, and Peter is historically and very, very accurately not funny, so he smiles lightly and tries to continue, “Yeah, there was sauce everywhere, just like, streaming down his face, so crazy.”

Crickets. One kid looks like he might cry.

His Spaghetti repertoire is not long or very skilled, and his singing is exceedingly bad, so he leans over the awkwardly angled mic and tries, “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!”

Harrington is the only one that claps.

Not even Ned can look up from apparent embarrassment. 

“If you’re happy and you know it—“

“Clap your hands!”

Peter turns his head at the sound of a little guitar and a loud, childish voice, and sees the one and only Freddy Spaghetti running up to him.

A sitcoms miracle.

The kids and families start cheering enough for Peter to pull back and quietly ask the singer, “What happened, I thought you were in Eagleton?”

“I was, but then this chick found me and made me a much better offer,” he swings some linguini hair over one shoulder and points down to the stage’s left staircase, where Michelle stands, signature smirk and arms crossed.

And Freddy Spaghetti smells totally stoned out of his mind, but the kids are happy and he’s singing about Penne to the tune of a One Direction bop, so Peter backs away and exits the stage quickly.

He finds Michelle’s eyes almost immediately.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’m not heartless, it’s a kids concert.”

“Look at that,” Peter hops off the last step, moves to stand next to her, “Mean Michelle has a soft spot.”

“Is that what everyone’s been calling me?”

“Not to your face.”

“Mean MJ has a better ring to it,” she counters. She smiles down at him before looking back up at the stage and says, “Look, this is really nice for right now, but there’s going to be a lot of pain ahead. We need to seriously—“

“I know, I know,” Peter shushes, gazing out at the crowds of very happy families in this nice summer afternoon, “But for once in your life, can’t you just appreciate that you provided a service, not a cut. A service. And it made so, so many people happy.”

Michelle gums softly, bumping her shoulder into Peter’s before she turns and walks away, “The real service was getting you to stop singing.”

When the sun has set and the tents have collapsed and the food has been picked up and Peter has heard every variation of pasta-themed music there could possibly be, the Parks team gathers together at the edge of the lot.

“Well, looks like we did it.”

“Penne and the Jets is going to haunt me for the next three months,” Flash scoffs, tossing a bottle from the floor into a recycling bin.

“Well, that might be how long it is before we get to do one of these things all together again so, I just wanted to say thanks,” Peter smiles, “You guys are really special.”

“Great work today, Pete,” Harrington waves, heading off.

“Lunch tomorrow?” Ned calls, and Peter nods.

“See ya, Parker,” Flash nods, turning to leave.

“Oh man, you’re making me sappy again,” Liz pouts, walking up to Peter, eyes bright, “I think we need to make this sitcom thing once a month, not once a week, it’s terrible for my big bad boss image.”

“I’ll try my best,” he laughs, reaching out to hold the hand she extends for a squeeze.He waves her off, saying, “See you soon, Director.”

“See you soon, Deputy.” She winks and mock salutes, “One more person i think you need to talk to.”

The lot is now empty, save for Peter, some lonely folding chairs, a bench, an empty soda can, and, Peter assumes, the one person he’s got left to say goodbye to.

“Michelle Jones.”

“Peter Parker,” she smiles, “I’ve got something for you.”

“If it’s the Freddy Spaghetti album, Betty already tried me. Not gonna happen.”

She laughs lightly and ducks into a seat on the low bench, a roll of paper in one hand. Peter joins her.

“I’m not here to make you fail. I know it might look like that sometimes, but I really don’t find any joy in being the reason you stop doing what you love to do.”

Peter hums some confirmation.

Michelle continues, “Everything’s numbers with me. They make sense. That’s why I’m good at budgets. I see what fits and what doesn’t until the sum works. And so when i saw we needed to cut expenditures by 32% and the deputy director of the Parks department made the second highest salary, all the signs in the numbers were telling me that deputy director needed to be fired.”

She pauses, Peter kicks at the grass under his feet.

“Liz has a few choice words for me over the phone when I told her that one. She’ll probably deny it if you ever ask, but when I said every department was going to lose a Peter Parker in this cut, she told me that was impossible, because no other department had once to begin with.” She looks up at him, a smile on the right corner of her mouth. “You are the heart of what makes not just Parks good, she said, but all of Pawnee. Hearts, last i checked, are not numbers, so I couldn’t find a place for them in my budget boxes.”

She hands Peter the rolled up paper in her hands, “So I marched down here, very clear intentions of stopping you, but then I saw it for myself. You, being the Peter Parker no other department is lucky enough to have,” she clears her throat, “I don’t want you to fail. I want you to build that park.”

Peter unrolls the sheet and sees plans. A sketched out plan for a park on lot 48.

“When did you do this?”

“If I had to hear that backwards ass singer rhyme pasta names one more time...”

Peter chuckles, and watched Michelle’s smile scrunch up her nose and the skin around her eyes.

“I couldn’t fit in all the things you wanted, like the life-size Lego Death Star, or the churro food truck circle,” Michelle glances down at her sketch, “But I think it’s a good start.”

“It’s perfect,” Peter says, truthfully, rolling the page back up and tucking it under one arm.

It’s no Master Plan™, but is a plan. A pretty good one.

“So I’m gonna have to make some cuts, but that doesn’t mean you fail.”

“Understood, Madam Mayor,” he laughs with a smirk.

“Deputy Director.”

“And about those cuts,” Peter nods, standing and starting towards the lot’s exit, “I have a few ideas I thought I could run by—“

“Peter, you know I can’t talk about these things, you’re non—“

“Oh? Liz didn’t tell you?” Peter backs up and pulls his City Hall badge out of his back pocket, “We swapped. I’m now on the task force. Very essential.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Serious as spaghetti, Michelle,” he winks, “So I will see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Parker,” she shakes her head, curls bouncing over her shoulder as she retreats from the lot, “Going to be the longest summer of my life.”


	2. Step 2: Perfect the Positive Spin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got way longer than i intended it to but what else were you expecting from me???
> 
> i cut and copy and pasted and straight up changed around a lot of parts from multiple episodes for this one, and also made MJ and Peter way flirtier than i think Leslie and Ben ever were, so sorry? not sorry? but there's also a lot of classic Parks in here too, have no fear!
> 
> episodes used:
> 
> 3x3 — “Time Capsule”  
3x1 — “Go Big or Go Home”  
3x2 — “Flu Season”  
3x4 — “Ron and Tammy: Part II”  
3x5 — “Media Blitz”

“Christmas Eve, 1973. In the town of Hartford, Connecticut, author Stephanie Meyer was born—“

“Oh, so we’re going all the way back to her birth now?”

“Today. Over 100 million copies sold worldwide.”

“He’s like a human telemarketer.”

“Aren’t most telemarketers… human?”

“_Are_ they?”

“Let us start with the first movie, _Twilight.”_

“Peter, if you don’t get this guy to shut up now I _will _unleash the Flash-pire.”

A collective groan echoes off Liz’s office walls for the first time since they’ve huddled together, the entire Parks team avoiding their latest… obstacle.

“Flash-pire?”

“Like _vampire_, god, Harrington,” Flash paces in front of the large window facing his and Peter’s office, “You’re after Parker.”

“Oh my god, guys, he’s got the movie printed out shot for shot,” Liz ducks behind Flash and points to local Pawneean Kelly Larson, flashing frames of Twilight at the Parks team from his spot handcuffed to a pipe next to Peter’s desk

Normal, obviously.

“We begin by slowly panning up over a mossy log, we see a deer drinking crystal clear water…” Kelly yells across the office, using his free hand to show a frame of exactly that.

“There’s only one solution I see,” Peter sighs.

“Cut the handcuffs off with a saw.”

“No, oh my god,” Peter shrieks at Flash’s wild suggestion, “But now I’m concerned— you have a saw?”

“I have a nail file,” Liz springs open a drawer and ruffles through its contents for the file.

“No one is cutting anyone out of the handcuffs with anything,” Peter starts, yelling over Kelly’s continued play-by-play, “We’re just going to let him put the book in the Time Capsule.”

“What a Harrington answer, Parker.”

“Peter, you don’t negotiate with weirdos,” Liz levels, “Otherwise, whenever we want to get anything done here, we will have people clinging to pipes in protest.”

Given the circumstances, Peter isn’t sure dodging people on pipes would be the worst scenario in the world.

The government has just reopened after its three-month shutdown, and left them with less than Peter had anticipated. It’s impossible to do anything but watch blades of grass grow on this shoestring budget, so yeah. Maybe the insane _Twilight_ fans could come in bulk. At least Peter would be doing something.

“Look, the guy came with handcuffs. He was planning to do this all along, and I don’t think he’s backing down. So let’s just put a little positive spin on it. _Twilight_ could be a really great way to represent life in Pawnee.”

“The town of Forks, Washington is nothing like Pawnee!” Flash pales, which only launches Kelly into a new lecture on their apparent similarities—except for you know, the vampires… and the werewolves… and the climate (which is probably not the best way to end his argument).

“You know, all this _Twilight _talk is taking me to a really dark and scary middle school place,” Liz huffs, “So just call security and cut the handcuffs off.”

“I’m so glad you said that, and _yes, _Parker, _I do _have a saw, for self-defense purposes,” Flash jumps up and walks to the corner of the office, “But because I value my job I hid it in Liz’s office instead of ours.”

“You _what?_”

“What kind of self-defense are you doing?”

“What kind of self-defense are _you_ doing?”

“Hey guys, mind if we push the meeting— oh, what’s going on?”

Michelle tips her head around the edge of the opening to Liz’s office, eyes wide as she surveys the scene: Peter stretched to the window on Liz’s landline phone, Harrington hiding in the corner, Liz yelling, and Flash holding a surprisingly large handsaw (see, Kelly, _that’s _how you finish a list).

“Some guy handcuffed himself to a pipe in my office because we won’t put a copy of _Twilight _in the 50-year time capsule,” Peter states simply.

Another day in the Parks department.

“Gee, I hate when that happens!” She quirks sarcastically, shakes her head with a little laugh, “Welcome back, Parks.”

“Yes, push the meeting,” Liz nods.

“Jones, what would you do?” Flash yells, waving the saw dangerously close to Peter’s face, “Does the epic love story between a strong female and her vampire and werewolf lovers constitute a place in the history of Pawenee, or should I just hack this crackpot out of here?”

The team blinks.

“What, they’re good? The books are like a window into the soul and Robert Pattinson could get it.”

“Team Jacob,” Liz says, “MJ, please back me up, girl to girl here.”

“More of a _Harry Potter_ girl,” she concedes.

Peter lights up at her words, “Seriously? Same,” he beams, “Hufflepuff.”

“Of course you are,” she says, flatly, “And I happen to have the perfect solution for you all.”

Michelle starts tosses a file folder onto Liz’s desk before starting to back out of the office, “No time capsule. Done. Solved. You’re welcome,” she waves, “Betty and I will be back in 2 hours to go over some stuff about the future of your department.”

And well, this Hufflepuff just isn’t having it.

Peter leaves the office in a rush to follow the state auditor out, leaving Flash, Liz and Harrington to their own devices to get Kelly out. He catches up to her a few paces out and down the main hallway of the building.

“Wait, Michelle, wait,” he huffs, out of breath, getting her attention as she spins to face him, “I don’t think I heard you right back there, with Kelly still yelling about the _Twilight _screenplay.”

“What’s up, Parker?”

“It sounded like you said _‘no _time capsule’, but that can’t be right—“

“I did,” she says, “No time capsule. Don’t do it.”

“But we—“

“You know, you’re right, I should rephrase,” she locks her hands together in front of her chest, like she’s talking to a kindergartener, “You _can’t _do the time capsule. _Cannot_.”

“I don’t understand, we’ve had this planned for months.”

“The current budget for your department only allows you to be working on _existing _park maintenance,” Michelle says, “Time capsule did not _exist_ when we made the new budget, therefore, you can’t be working on it.”

“C’mon, Michelle, we’re dying in there,” he whines, a little huff that deflates his chest, “This morning Flash was reading the ingredients of all his hand lotions. Out loud.”

“Riveting.”

“And Liz offered to take a trip to the fourth floor.“

“What’s on the—“

“Death. And sadness. And divorce filings. And all things awful, basically,” Peter quips, eyes wide, like he had just taken a trip there himself, “And she volunteered to risk her life and go there.”

“Okay, drama queen,” she laughs lightly, “I understand it’s hard—“

“That’s the thing. It’s not hard. And it should be,” he sighs, “When you serve the community, like we’re _supposed to do_, hard things happen, like scary _Twilight _fans handcuffing themselves to your office.”

Michelle bites her bottom lip, and takes a slow step back, retreating away from where Peter stands.

“Look, if there’s anything I learned spending the most annoying summer of my life with you chirping in my ear,” she quirks a small smile, “It’s that you’ll figure it out and probably throw a party while you do it.”

She turns and walks the rest of the way down the hallway, leaving Peter alone next to a sad looking bench and some old, dodgy framed documents that haven’t been changed from the wall in what he guesses is at least 20 years. And he knows she meant well, probably her weird way of a Michelle Jones compliment, but the little speech does nothing for Peter’s morale at the moment.

Peter liked his job because he didn’t have to try to make it enjoyable. It just was.

But now, he was sitting in stale City Hall air, his body buzzing from his latest tet-a-tete with his polar opposite, wishing something, or someone would just hit—

_Thump._

A framed poster falls off the wall above him and slides with a thud into his lap.

And Peter will firmly stand by his belief that good things come to those who work hard.

…But hey, if the answer falls into your lap?

That’s no one’s business but his own.

“So we know the people who run this government have no faith in us, or what we do, but I have a plan—“

“Oh, god.”

“When does he not?”

“I thought we were seven steps closer to the apocalypse waiting so long for a new one.”

Ignoring them, Peter clutches the poster to his chest, and continues, “My plan is stopping the apocalypse, the _Parks_pocalypse.”

“I’m not even going to—“

“With this plan, I think we can change their minds, _and _bring our budget back,” he sighs with a smile, “And the answer’s been right in front of us this whole time!” He flips the frame around and proudly displays it to his team, huddled around his new lucky bench in the hallway.

“Check your testicles for lumps?”

Flash blinks and chokes after Liz points and reads the sign Peter’s holding.

“Oh, jeez, no, wrong sign,” Peter flushes and throws the poster behind him, picking up the other one that had fallen on him mid-brainstorm/post-MJ brood. While he shuffles he lowly mumbles, “Though that is very important and you should all do that often. Early detection is key.”

Liz’s face immediately brightens the moment Peter holds up his new sign, his sky-is-falling-in-City-Hall sign, and things finally start to come together.

“That makes so much more sense.”

“And it’s a good plan,” Liz smirks, eyes on Peter, “A really good plan.”

“I realize times are tough and the budget is tight, but if people have nothing to do all day but sit in their houses, Pawnee will die…”

“Well—“

“Metaphorically,” Peter yelps, eyes wide, “The spirit of Pawnee does not live in what’s preexisting, but the power of what we still have yet to do.”

Peter shrugs a shoulder and signals his team, unravelling a long banner behind them, and cueing up Flash’s best and most professional (read: least likely to be mistaken for a porno soundtrack) music, unveiling their _really good_ plan at their meeting with Betty and Michelle a few hours later.

** _The Annual Harvest Festival: A Celebration of Life in Pawnee, Indiana_ **

“People from all over Indiana would come to Pawnee. It was a full seven days of corn mazes, hayrides, Ferris wheels, pumpkins the size of jeeps!” Peter says, heart leaping up his throat, “It was a living time capsule, a true representation of our town and why it was so amazing.”

Betty swings her feet in her chair, sold almost instantly, Peter could tell, but Michelle hasn’t budged. She twists her lips to one side, like she’s biting the inside of her cheek.

The sight makes Peter feel jittery, and he bounces to continue, “We lost the festival a few years ago, due to another round of budget cuts, but we’re proposing that we bring it back. Ticket sales and corporate sponsorships will earn all that money back, and more.”

Michelle wants to smile, Peter can feel it.

And if she won’t, then he will.

“And believe me, people will come.”

“If they don’t?” She finally speaks up, sliding a clipboard against her knees, heels clicking the linoleum floor.

“You eliminate the parks department.”

Challenge accepted: he’ll make it hard.

“And you _all_, agree with this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of course.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Liz slides up next to Peter, Harrington at her right and Flash on Peter’s left.

“Look, we’re not just pencil pushers. We are a reflection of the community, a community that we believe we can strengthen,” Peter sighs, eyes on Michelle, “Because isn’t that the reason we’re all here? To bring people together?”

The moment feels long, and full, though maybe only two seconds of air pass between them. Her fingers clench around her clipboard, and Peter feels her grip on his heart go with it.

They’re only interrupted by the sound of Betty letting out a loud, and uncharacteristic sob, “That was quite literally, the most moving and beautiful thing anyone has ever said in a government building,” she wipes at a tear, “And also, a great idea.”

“A really good idea,” Liz leans up and says softly by Peter’s ear.

A beat. Harrington mercifully does something intelligent for once in his career and slips a hand behind them to turn Flash’s theme music off (“Don’t hate, it’s crafted specifically for winning business-pitches. You’re looking at the key to my amateur fragrance line, Flash Fresh.”)

Michelle tips the bottom of her clipboard in her lap, eyes a little brighter when she looks back at Peter, “Had to take my advice literally, huh?”

Peter shakes his head, confused.

“Figured it out _and_ going to throw a party while doing it?” She smirks.

“It’s a festival, actually—“

“Shut up and just accept the fact that she’s letting us do it, Penis.”

He mouths a silent _thank you_ across the office while celebrations begin and she’s stuck in a corner in conversation with Harrington about his tie collection.

The way she smiles back like it couldn’t save the budget on its own willpower might be the hardest part of Peter’s day.

“That was really touching, but I still think you should reconsider—“

“Kelly?!”

“Creep is still here?”

“How did you guys literally set up an entire pitch without realizing…” Michelle shakes her head and walks towards the office, “Whatever, I was a kick ass Boy Scout, I got this.”

“You couldn’t do that three hours ago?”

Harvest Festival transformed from an idea into this impossibly large, looming _thing, _practically overnight.

(It was, indeed, an overnight thing, as Peter rushed into work the next day with new binders for every office member and their management liaison, one Michelle Jones.)

“We need at least 80 local businesses to sign on to the Harvest Festival,” Peter starts, flipping his binder shut as he walks from his car towards the entrance to Delmar’s with MJ, “We can probably get Delmar’s on board, they’re a staple of Pawnee and I think I alone have spent more on their sandwiches than the rest of the town combined.”

“That cannot be healthy,” MJ snickers, swinging her car door shut.

“I never said it was,” Peter replies, pausing briefly to sneeze into his elbow. He sighs before continuing, “But they’re delicious and I’m gonna show you why the laws of nutrition suspend momentarily when Delmar smushes the world’s greatest sandwich down for you.”

Peter hops up and over the curve, wobbles a little on his feet as he does it, and MJ rushes to prop a hand under one of his elbows to steady him.

“You good, Parker?”

“Totally,” he coughs, “So we get Delmar now, then tomorrow we have the meeting with city council and Friday is the presentation.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” MJ mock salutes, then Peter feels her eyes track his body up and down, back up to his face. Worry knits her brow in a way Peter hasn’t noticed before (and that’s saying something, since she’s almost always worried). “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Peter sucks in a deep breath, “Just allergies.”

She pulls the door to the small shop open for him and digs into her pocket for a tissue, not fully convinced.

He swats her off, “Michelle, really. The only thing you should be worried about now is the Delmar’s addiction you are about to develop.”

Okay. Maybe there was more to be worried about.

Not on the Harvest Fest front, obviously. Peter’s planned for this, and they’re off to a good start, as per his precise calculations.

“We’ve developed a revenue sharing formula that will hopefully appeal to most business owners—“

“Go home, Peter!”

And yes, this is something Flash yells pretty regularly, but not usually muffled through a shiny red motorcycle mask as he wields a spray bottle of hand sanitizer.

“I’m _fine _guys, we need to go over this,” Peter says, conference call phone in hand to communicate with Liz and Harrington, who quarantined themselves before Flash was lucky enough to join, “It’s just—“ Sneeze, deep breath, “Allergies.”

“You need to go home, Peter. You’re sick,” Liz scolds through the phone, and maybe if the room wasn’t slightly fuzzy, Peter would be able to make out the scowl that goes with it.

“Peter, you look really tired.”

“And you’re very sweaty.”

“Harrington, you’re tired and sweaty all the time, what’s your excuse?” Peter barks, flipping the pages, and the way his chair spins underneath him is unnecessarily nauseating, he can’t even fully appreciate his sick dig at Harrington. He swipes away a slick curl of hair on his forehead and suddenly feeling cold, wraps a jacket around his shoulders.

“Hey, Peter I thought we had a meet—woah, what is going on? And why am I always asking that as soon as I step into this office?” Michelle peaks her head around the doorway to Peter and Flash’s space.

“MJ, get out while you still can!” Flash yells, flipping the shade of the helmet down and spritzing in her direction with sanitizer.

Liz taps on the glass of the conference room and waves across, “Peter’s sick.”

“I’m _not_, it’s allergies, and I’m tired because I was up all night working on this pitch,” he answers back, “I’ve had lots of sugar in the past 30 minutes and so far its keeping me awake.”

“I knew you were sick yesterday,” Michelle shakes her head, steps forward and presses a light hand to Peter’s head, “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“If I was sick, then why did I take a Claritin 3 hours ago just to throw it up?” Peter hiccups, leaning back in his hair sloppily and wishing MJ would rest her hand on him again. Her skin was so soft, and cool, and—

“You what?”

“I tried again, and it didn’t stay down,” he says, a slight loopy giggle, and wow, it’s cold for a summer day, he wraps his coat tighter to himself, “And again a third time. So obviously, if my body needed medicine I wouldn’t keep throwing it up. I’m fine.”

“That’s not how medicine works.”

“Oh, I’m Michelle and I know everything about everything,” Peter mocks, “Is it cold in here?” He tries to knit his brows together in confusion but it just makes his head hurt.

“Normally, I’d be all for making fun of MJ with you, but seriously,” Flash says, slides his chair closer to the wall and away from Peter, “You need to go home.”

“I can’t, I started this Harvest Festival and I need to finish it.”

“It’s day two,” Michelle presses, crouching down and looking through Peter’s bag to confiscate the rest of his over-the-counter Claritin, “And if you stay here no one will be able to work on it, because we’ll all get sick.”

“But _MJ_!” He yelps, “I need to get ready for the Chamber of Secrets!”

“Chamber of Commerce?”

“Shhh!” He hums, chin tilted down as he looks up at her, “They can hear you through the walls…” he holds a finger to his lips and moves to point it towards her.

She leans back in time to avoid it, but takes one of Peter’s hands to start to pull him out of his chair.

Even blurry, she’s got such pretty hair, and eyes, so sparkly, and—

“Yeah, Peter, we can hear you,” Liz yells from the other room, “Follow Michelle.”

“Who’s your doctor?” She says softly towards Peter.

“Dr. Strange!”

Michelle pleads with Flash, who grunts in response, “Ugh, Leeds works at the hospital. Take him there and he’ll deal with Flu Boy.”

“You think it’s the flu?”

“Michelle, I don’t know if this helps,” Harrington nods at her through the window, as she slings an arm around Peter to shoulder his weight out the door, “But I typed his symptoms into the computer and it says Peter could be having… network connectivity problems.”

“Holy hell, how does anything get done in this department?”

“Peter, you have a 104.1 degree fever, you’re extremely dehydrated, and you asked me on the way here if I knew the Egyptian currency exchange rate.”

“Because her phone had clearly translated into hieroglyphics and we had to pay the Uber driver!” Peter stage-whispers to Ned on his left, as in explanation.

“You can’t fight me on this, dude,” Ned says, and clicks Peter’s chart into pace on the end of the hospital bed, “Or Michelle. The flu is no joke.”

“You don’t know that I have that.”

“I do.”

“But you’re not _positive_…”

“The test literally came back positive,” Michelle blinks, tucking the edge of the blanket closer to Peter, “You’re staying here until you’re better. I’ve got the presentation covered.”

“NO!” He yelps, but his throat scratches and he lets out a long, wet cough, “If this presentation doesn’t go perfect—“

“I’ve done a million of these,” Michelle nods.

“But never for my Harvest Festival.”

“You’ve never done a Harvest Festival before,” she smiles a tight-lipped smirk, “I am as positive as your flu test, I can handle it.” She picks up her bag, and turns between Peter and the door twice, settles on a light pat to his forearm before, slowly heading for the door, “Thanks, Ned.”

“Good luck, MJ.”

As soon as she’s out the door, Peter flips her neatly tucked sheets and makes for the door.

Or he imagines he does.

(He also imagines he spy-dives for the door with a somersault and cartwheels before turning the knob, but no one needs to know that.)

Ned must notice him tense, because he rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder within seconds, “You don’t need to worry, you can trust MJ.”

“Its not that I don’t trust MJ, per say,” Peter rocks his head from ear to shoulder and back, eyes squinted, “I just don’t have faith in MJ. And I’m starting to forget who MJ is.”

“That’s—“

“What is her opening line gonna be?” He scoffs, “She’ll probably introduce herself, non-musically, first mistake—“

“Not a mistake.”

“And then be like, ‘these are numbers blah blah blah I love numbers,’ or something boring like that.”

“She’s a really great speaker, Peter,” Ned rests Peter’s call bell in his lap and starts for the door, “And she never half-asses anything.”

“Not with an ass like hers, that’s for sure.”

“Oh my god,” Ned gasps, a laugh shaking his whole body. Eyes wide, he backs out, pointing to Peter, “I’m blaming this momentarily on flu meds, but we _are_ discussing your crush on MJ when your health returns.”

“My health has returned! I think my fever’s breaking! Let me go!”

“Get some rest, Lover Boy.”

And well, if it weren’t for his pressing need to be at that Harvest Fest sponsorship presentation, then maybe he’d stick with having the flu forever. Only to avoid Ned’s looming feelings conversation.

But. Harvest Fest.

So, feelings.

Peter only gets out of his bed and tries to make a run for it twice on Ned’s shift.

Once, wearing his hospital gown and work blazer backwards, one right shoe on his left foot.

A second, with his pants as a scarf, asking Ned for advice on if ‘this new scarf makes me look too pretentious? Yeah? I thought so, too.’

And well, Ned says _tries twice_ because the third time is, unfortunately, in a Peter Parker way, successful.

Ned was guilty of extremely poor judgement that night between the hours of 5:42 and 6:37 for flirting with his newest admit, Betty Brant and letting Peter sneak out uninterrupted. (The Peter running out part, that is. The flirting was _extremely good _judgement, and he totally had a date lined up next Friday. Flu symptoms notwithstanding.)

He was walking back into Betty’s room with a cup of Pawnee’s finest crushed ice and noticed she had already taken her Flu medicine, the cup empty. When he questioned her about it, she simply looped her head to the side and sloppily smiled, “Peter came running in and stole it, told me not to tell you, waved, then disappeared through hat hole in the wall.”

“The door?”

“That’s what it’s called!” She hiccups at the end of her sentence, and it would be really cute if not for the fact that it’s not a cute situation to be in at all, “I love how smart you are.”

Cuteness restored for the 3.5 seconds before he speed dials Michelle.

His employee salary may be okay, but he’s _positive _he doesn’t get paid enough to be Peter’s best friend.

“Flash, where have you been all day?” Michelle flutters her papers in her hands as she runs from the podium at the stage to where Flash casually strides into the meeting, 6 minutes before it’s set to start, “I went back to your office to prep for the meeting and you weren’t—“

“Yeah, no, I don’t do prep,” he shakes his head and squirts some aloe-infused Purelle into his hands. As he rubs them together he nods at her, “The worst thing you can do for a presentation like this is over-prepare.”

“That’s literally the opposite of true,” MJ huffs, “We promised Peter we would make sure this was perfect.”

“_You _promised Peter this would be perfect,” Flash points two finger guns at her, hopping up onto the stage behind her, “I never promise Peter anything, that way I never disappoint him.”

“Yeah, again, somehow that sounds like its the opposite of true.”

“Okay, chill, Jones, I don’t wanna sleep with your boy, so no need to scowl so harshly at me—“

“He’s not, I’m not, we’re—“ MJ huffs, her cheeks suddenly feeling akin to Peter’s feverish forehead, “Where were you?”

“At the spa. With those gentlemen in the front row.”

“I could deck you.”

“I saw you what you did to _Twilight _dude so, thanks but no thanks,” he chuckles, “Am I opening?”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea considering you spent all day exfoliating instead of going over our plans for—“

“Intro it is, take a seat Mrs. Parker.”

And she’s not conceding to the name, not in the slightest, but she sits in a chair at the far end of the stage anyway.

(Parker-Jones, obviously, not that she’s thought about it, at all, ever. Just like she’s never thought about his biceps in his work dress shirts, duh. Why would she ever— no, no. Obviously.)

“Good evening, business owners of Pawnee,” Flash taps into the mic, hands on the sides of the podium’s top and body tipped forward, “It says here on my sheet that you all run a variety of world class businesses,” he picks up the paper and dramatically squints to ‘read’ it, then turns back to the mic, “But there must be a mistake, but its obvious you all make _looking amazing _your #1 business!”

The crowd is brought to an astounding laugh. And MJ is just. There’s no way. _That’s_ what does it for these people?

“Before we get started I just wanna say, you should all come down to the Flashmob Lounge, where every night is ladies night, and therefore, always men’s night too, if you know what I’m saying,” he chuckles along with the audience and MJ resists the urge to fold her head into her lap.

What kind of town did she walk into?

“And to kick off our amazing evening of Sponsorship, a huge thank you to the guys down at Pawnee’s local car dealerships for generously donating a full set of vans for transportation during the festival,” Flash smiles, and the first three guys in the front row wave up at him.

No fucking way, this little shit—

“Hey, what’d I miss?”

“Ah!” MJ yelps when she hears a voice in her ear, and finds the voice attached to one flu-ridden deputy director, “Why are you not at the hospital?”

“Ned said I’m fine.”

She lifts her eyebrows and Peter shrinks into the seat beside her, “Ned _may _say I’m fine when you call him to yell about me being here if he’s a good best friend and cares about my happiness.”

“At least you’re still smart,” she says, turns to look at him head-on while Flash continues the opening schmooze. She’s overwhelmed when she does, and realizes she’s never been this close to him before, “God Peter, your eyes…”

“What?”

They’re the biggest doe eyes she’s ever seen, poring into the deepest part of her chest, and it crackles through her like a hot summer thunderstorm.

She clears her throat, the moment far too much for her, and shakes it off, “Uh, nothing, they just look really glassy.”

“They do that sometimes.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to,” and she can’t help it, she smiles, just the smallest, tiniest bit, “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“And I’m worried about you,” he says softly.

It takes a minute for MJ’s heart to restart after that, and Peter’s hand is on her wrist.

“Why are you worried about me?”

“Because the floor and the wall just switched…” His eyes flit up, to the side, down, back up.

A nice moment short lived. MJ turns back to the task at hand when she hears the audience start a round of applause.

“I’m going to rip you a new one for this when you’re not too drugged to remember it,” MJ smiles, “But if you get up right now I can look away and pretend I couldn’t stop you.”

Fucked. She’s so fucked.

“Just by showing up today, every single one of you has already made history. The Harvest Festival was the cornerstone of Pawnee’s diverse and ever-evolving small business community. It was a weeklong showcase of everything from textiles to small farms.

“We estimate that as many as 30,000 people will attend the Harvest Festival Revival we’re planning for the end of this summer, and the monetary value of that direct customer to business exposure is, frankly, incalculable.

“The time is now, the place is Pawnee. Let’s make history.”

Earlier today MJ wondered how anything ever got done in the Parks department?

And she thinks she finds her answer sitting on a plastic chair in the corner of the stage that Peter Parker eloquently presents on.

There has to be a little bit of superhuman inside Peter Parker, MJ is sure, after watching his presentation unfold. She’s never seen anything like it.

It was like a flu-ridden Michael Jordan at the ’97 NBA finals, like Kurt Gibson hobbling up to the plate and hitting a homer against Dennis Eckerston.

It was like Peter Parker, MJ is certain. Just pure Peter Parker.

“Thank you, we can take some questions at this time. Yes, sir?”

“Are we going to get the same sales-tax incentives as we used to?”

“That is, a very good question, sir, that, I answer with my own question, that is, why is half of your face all swirly?”

“Okay,” MJ hops up from her seat and pulls the microphone from Peter’s lips and directs it at herself, clutching the side of the podium, “Unfortunately, Peter has another really important meeting to get to and can’t stay for questions, but I would be happy to answer any and all that you have.”

“And you were worried about me…” Peter wobbles on his feet, whispers to MJ before letting go of the podium.

“Have Flash take you back to the hospital or I’ll murder you.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, MJ.”

“Parker,” MJ dips into the hospital room, a white plastic bag in one hand and her other pushed into her back pocket, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to throw up unless you tell me how the meeting ended.”

“Are you sure you don’t just need to throw up? Because I could go call—“

“Michelle.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, eyes wide and a smirk playing at her lips, “But just to make sure, you don’t want this homemade chicken soup before—“ He thumps his head back against the pillow and likes the way her laugh follows it, “Okay, noted. How many sponsorships did you say we needed, again?”

“Eighty.”

MJ untucks a file folder from under her arm and splays it out onto his bed-table, “110. And counting. Nice work, Peter.”

“Nice work to you too.”

“I also have your favorite sandwich from Delmar’s—“

“Well, why didn’t you lead with that?” Peter sits up sharply, his arms extended and fingers making grabby motions for the bag in her hands, “I would have waited for the Delmar’s sandwich.”

“You know, the soup is an old family recipe, I made it myself—“

“The sandwich, MJ.”

“Right,” she purses her lips, but its fond, and knowing, and kind of similar to the sensation Peter remembers after he chugged back 4 pixie sticks to stay awake in the office this morning. “Get some rest, Parker. Your Harvest Festival did not die.”

“And neither did I.”

“Thank god for that.”

“Hey, MJ?”

“Yeah, Betty?”

“The city manager asked about us getting an extension to stay in the city.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I feel like I should stay, but I told him you’d probably—“

“Actually, I think we should stay,” MJ taps her fingers on the wall between Betty’s hospital room and Peter’s, “Lots to do. With the festival coming up, and everything.”

“Right, exactly what I was thinking.”

“Cool, cool,” she sighs, “We’ll stay.”

Peter is back to full-time Harvest Fest duty in a week.

“So, should we talk about—“

“Nope.”

“Because, I’m really very interested in—“

“Nothing to talk about, Ned,” Peter chugs back the last large gulp of his coffee and moves to toss the disposable cup in the garbage on his right.

Only, he misses completely, not looking in the direction of his throw and instead through the window of the city manager’s office at—

“You’re right,” Ned laughs, bending and picking up the cup while his friend snaps out of his daze. He waves at a smiling Michelle Jones through said window before gripping Peter’s shoulder and pulling him down the rest of the hallway, “Nothing to talk about at all.”

“Okay, we’re ordering them a total of 30 pizzas, so let’s talk toppings.”

“Sausage, onions and peppers. Scientifically proven to be the best toppings. Ever.”

“She’s right!” Flash taps the table, salutes towards Liz after her suggestion, and Peter jots the note down.

“How about some salads, for a healthy option?”

“Ew, don’t be such a Harrington, Jones,” Flash’s face crumples in disgust, and he stands from the table, “They’re cops.”

“Cops don’t eat salad?”

“Fine we’ll get some salads,” Peter hums, shaking his head, “But no one eat it because we don’t want to make them feel bad for eating the unhealthy option, and having them think _we think_ we’re superior to them.”

“I promise you, no one is going to think that far into this.”

“People in Pawnee think into everything,” Liz says, swirling her coffee around in her mug, where she stands, leaning back against the printer, “One time, Peter and I put on a cute penguin wedding to increase zoo attendance, and half the town wanted us to resign because of it.”

“Wait, the gay penguin wedding? I remember seeing that on the news,“ Michelle giggles.

“Not that its a contest or anything, but Liz and I do have drinks named after us at the Bulge.”

“What’s the Bulge?”

“Pawnee’s local gay bar,” Flash explains to MJ, “The Peter Colada and Liz and Tonic.”

“Gay rights, baby,” Liz leans forward and high fives Peter, where he sits at the office’s central table.

“But back to pizza,” Peter sobers the discussion, armed again with pen in hand.

“Why do we need to throw this huge party anyway?” Michelle questions, “Can’t we just go ask the police department for security?”

“Michelle, your Minnesota is showing.”

“We need a huge number of the Pawenee Police department to volunteer as security for the Harvest Festival, a disproportionally huge number,” Liz says, “When we need stuff done in here our first plan of action is always food.”

“I don’t know what it is about big outdoor gatherings that makes everyone want to urinate all over everything, but it does,” Peter nods solemnly, and shudders at the thought of some of the things he’s had to clean up, “And they will. They will do that. Here.”

“Okay, so, really big favor solved with really big amounts of pizzas. Got it,” Michelle taps the table, laughing at Peter, “How about we get some calzones?”

“She’s an unstoppable _bad idea _machine today!”

“Calzones are like pizzas, just harder to eat,” Peter shrugs, “They’re dumb and so is—“

“If you say me, Parker…”

“So is that idea,” he says, eyes bright, before grabbing his notebook and standing to order the pizzas in his office. Michelle tips back in her seat like she contemplates following.

“Get a room!”

“Suck my dick, Flash.”

And Peter really likes the view he has from his office of Michelle flipping Flash off as she yells it, striding out of the office.

“So what’s the _plan_?”

“Why does everyone always have to say it like that?” Peter crosses his arms over his chest.

“Do you not have a plan?” Michelle smirks.

“I do,” Peter huffs, and grabs a beer from the bar’s counter and passes it to an officer that walks by and he greets, “But that doesn’t mean I enjoy the way everyone feels the need to wiggle their eyebrows at me when they ask for the plan.”

“I’m sorry,” Michelle puts her hands flat on her forehead, covering her eyebrows, “What’s the plan for this huge, critical favor?”

Peter resists the huge, critical urge to grab her hands in his own, then says, “We go up to the chief post-pizza and pre-dessert, between the 3rd and 4th beers so that everyone is tipsy, but not drunk, which,” Peter glances at his watch, then back up to MJ, “Should be around 9 o’clock.”

“I think we need to get you tipsy but not drunk,” she laughs, and Peter is pretty sure he’s halfway there.

“Liz, have you seen Peter? It’s like, exactly between 3 and 4 beers o’clock,” Michelle slides up next to the other woman at the bar.

“I’m gonna ignore how confusing that sentence was,” Liz says, and presses a hand to her temples, “But Peter left about an hour ago, that’s why I’m here. I don’t usually do town functions unless I have to.”

“He what?” Michelle blinks at her, extremely confused. This was Peter Parker the same Peter Parker who fought drugged up on flu medication just to give a speech to local business sponsors. He wouldn’t just— “Why? Where did he go? He should have told me—“

“Turns out Harrington’s psycho ex-wife is dating a cop,” Liz tosses back a sip of her drink and rolls her eyes, “He kind of lost it when he saw her here, which, I don’t blame him at all for, so Peter drove him home.”

This was Peter Parker, alright.

“Where is she now? Can Peter come back?”

“Michelle, I’ve literally never met anyone closer to the devil in my life, so I’m not even going to try to look for her and risk eye contact. Department policy: we don’t even say her name,” Liz warns, and MJ surveys the room, “She once faked her own death. And I’m guessing she’d know how to not-fake mine.”

“Damn,” MJ sighs, “Is he going to be okay?”

“With Peter, he’ll be fine,” Liz says, “I know we all give the guy a really hard time, but we rally when it’s necessary. Some of us more than others,” she passes MJ her drink to offer her a sip, but she politely declines, “And by some of us, I mean Peter. A heart that doesn’t fit in his body, that kid.”

“He’s like, three years younger than you…”

“Still a kid,” she smirks, “Anyway, I figured I could suck it up and schmooze some cops for an hour or two. You need any help?”

“No, no, was just going to ask the chief about volunteers,” MJ waves her off, “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll be fine, you and Peter did a great job putting this together,” Liz smiles, “Though it would be _so _much better if I had a calzone to go with this cheap beer…”

“Fuck off.”

Is Michelle Jones a good speaker? Yes. She’s articulate and thoughtful and knows how to use words to her advantage.

Is Michelle Jones conversational?

Jury’s still out on that one.

“Chief Morita,” MJ walks up to where the police chief sits, at a booth on the side of the bar, “I’m Michelle Jones, from the state budget office.”

“Hey, good to see you,” he nods, takes another bite of his pizza, “Thanks for the party, good pizza.”

“Yeah, so, that pizza?” She rocks back on her heels, a nervous laugh, “Pizza’s dynamite isn’t it?”

“I just said it was good pizza.”

“Right,” she tries again, but her voice cracks at the end of the syllable, “You know what else is great? Calzones.”

“Calzones?”

“Yup, calzones.”

“I’ve never met anyone who liked calzones.”

“I like calzones.”

“You said.”

MJ feels like smashing her face _into_ a calzone right about now. Cops make her jittery and Peter is a surprisingly calming presence that is noticeably absent and she’s decidedly not conversational so. This sucks. Sucks as much as Pawnee collectively thinks calzones suck.

“So, I actually had kind of a big favor to ask—“

“How big, like, calzone sized?” Chief Morita cracks a laugh at MJ, who tries not to strain a laugh in response.

“Sure, okay yeah,” she says nervously, “We really need a security team for the Harvest Festival, it’s—“

“Send me a list of how many officers you need and when you need ‘em.”

Michelle catches her painfully awkward voice in her throat and blinks fast, “Sorry, just like that?”

“You work with Peter Parker, right?”

“Yeah, he’s practically building this festival with his own bare hands.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less,” he smiles, “Peter Parker gets whatever favors he needs.”

“Seriously?” She chokes, then steadies herself, “Um, thank you, I don’t think you know how much this means.”

“I think I’ve got a feeling. Whatever you guys need, let me know. Peter’s the kind of guy to use favors for other people, so we’re there, no cost. Plus,” he starts, “My buddy Dave was just about the crankiest guy in the station until he started dating Peter.”

“Peter dated a cop?” MJ tries to process this new information, her conversational skills continuing to plummet, “Is he? Is he here? Or, are they still… together?”

She doesn’t even know why she’s asking because obviously, it’s none of her business, and obviously, she doesn’t care. Like, what would the information do for her it’s not like she wants—

“Nah, they broke up with he moved to San Diego about a year ago.”

She likes the answer anyway.

“Thank you, everyone, for meeting me here today,” Liz folds her hands in her lap at the head of the conference table, “Something grave and terrible has suddenly stricken the Parks department.”

Michelle notices Peter shift uncomfortably in his chair, swiveling side to side, his foot tapping unintentionally tapping hers under the table. (Sue her, if she very intentionally taps back.) Flash sits across from her and Harrington on his left. Even Ned has been corralled into the meeting when stopping by before after his shift.

“Struck?”

“No, I think stricken works.”

“Anyway,” Liz says, “Shield your eyes, for you are about to see the most disturbing image in Parks history…”

She’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into, or why Liz has suddenly decided to make a big deal out of a work-related thing, but honestly, MJ isn’t too sure you’re allowed second guesses when you sign up to work so closely with this department.

“Behold,” Liz spins her laptop to face the long conference table, “_No items on Peter’s to-do list!_”

The room mocks gasps and dramatic sighs around her, Michelle finds herself letting out a genuine laugh. Peter sinks into his seat, his hands covering his face.

“Shut up, Liz.”

The director in question is not abated by Peter’s groan, just continues to flourish the empty square on the Harvest Fest calendar/schedule Peter has had basically tattooed and imprinted on every department member since prep began several weeks ago.

“You might be asking yourself, could it _really be_? What did we do to deserve such a momentous occasion, Liz?” Liz says, like she’s presenting an Emmy and not the screen of her laptop, “Well, I’m here to tell you the rumors are true—for the first time in his young adult life, Peter Parker has no plans, no meeting, and no annoyingly optimistic team-building activities assigned for us!”

“We cannot even say he might be feeling sick because he still had twenty items on his to-do list when he literally had the flu,” Flash says.

“Ned, did you hack into his computer and delete anything?”

“That was one time,” Ned laughs, and swats off Peter’s glare, “And I swore I’d never do it again, so no. This was all him.”

“Can we get a quote, Mr. Parker?” Liz flips her pen to him like it’s a reporter’s mic, and sends the room into another round of laughs.

“No comment.”

“Oh c’mon.”

“No work, but also no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Peter perks up, defensive.

“Last week you asked if I wanted to help you do a word search on my lunch break,” MJ offers.

“Look, I can find something for you all to do if you really want—“

“Nope.”

“No thanks.”

“You’re _tons _of fun, Peter.”

“No one said we needed to be kiss asses about it, Harrington.”

“I just know what this team is like,” Peter starts, “And figured we would mess up somewhere, so I built in an extra day.”

“Ye of little faith, Parker.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Liz settles her smile, “But seriously, no screw ups?”

“Nope,” Peter says, with a pop of the ‘p’.

“Like, none… at all?”

“We are scarily on track,” Peter says, and it fills MJ up from her head down to the foot she’s still got locked around his ankle, “So, the Friday is yours.”

“Liz, are there any non-Harvest Fest procedures we should run?” Harrington asks.

“You think I’m going take away the victory we’ve just won by making you work the permits desk?” Liz knits her eyebrows together and spins out of her chair, “Everyone get out of here—“

“Not so fast!” Flash jumps up and leads attention to the front of the room, “Now that I have confirmed you are all sitting her on a Friday with nothing to do…”

“Oh, god.”

“Pray for us.”

“I’m not going to the Flashmob—“

“Come on down to the Flashmob Lounge,” Flash brandishes, met with a chorus of groans, “We’re having a launch party for Dennis Feinstein’s newest fragrance, _Allergic: For Men_.”

“Who’s Dennis Feinstein?”

“Literally, why do we still let MJ work with us?” Flash yells, “Dennis Feinstein is _the _up and comer in the microbrewer perfumes and body spray industry.”

“Right, my bad,” she quips sarcastically, eyebrows perched. It makes Peter giggle beside her.

“I’m noting the sarcasm, Jones, and it think you’ll find it is sorely misplaced when you hear his ether-based perfume, _Blackout_ was named one of the top 100 ways to trick someone into sex.”

“So that’s how my ex did it,” she muses.

“This is why we keep her, Flash,” Liz points, “I’m gonna regret asking but what time is this Anaphylactic party tonight?”

“_Allergic, _and the club opens at 6, event starts at 9,” Flash says, “Don’t even pretend you can’t be there, because I know you all literally have nothing else to do, thanks Parker.”

“That’s too late for me, I’ll be deep into my bath by then.”

“Gross, Harrington!”

“I think we should all get drunk,” Liz nods, grabbing her laptop and starting for the door.

“Okay, Liz is in, Jerry’s out, Parker is apparently a ton of fun so he’ll be there…” Flash sings.

“No, no, you guys have fun,” Peter waves them off, his cheeks flushing.

“Boooooo!”

“C’mon, we thought you were ‘plenty fun’!”

“Just put it on his planner and the he’ll have to come,” Ned smirks.

“That’s it I’m amending the schedule,” Liz scurries back to the conference table to lean forward with her laptop propped open. She types something quickly, “Done. Action item: get Peter wasted.”

“I hate you guys.”

“But you’re gonna come?” Liz pleads.

Peter leans up in his seat to peer over the top of Liz’s laptop. Michelle watches as his eyes scan over the screen, and she thinks its possible she can physically see wheels in his head spinning. After a moment he sighs, “Well, she color coded it red for urgent, so I guess I have to.”

“Hell yes!”

“Ned, you in too?”

“I’m on night shift tonight, sorry guys, but you should ask Betty,” he says.

“Oh perfect— MJ you can bring her,” Liz beams, “I seriously cannot stress enough how desperately I want female work friends.”

“I’ll ask her when I get back to our office, but I don’t think I can come.”

“What?”

“Parker and Jones _are _a match made in loser heaven.”

“Enjoy your day off guys,” she tucks her chin with a small smile, unwraps herself from her conference room chair and quickly walks out the Parks door.

“Yo, MJ, wait up,” MJ flips her head at the sound of her name to find Ned flagging her down at the end of the hallway, “You’re not going?”

“Nah, it’s a Parks thing, I don’t wanna—“

“They invited you!”

“They invite me out a lot, they’re just being polite,” she shrugs, tucking her bag under one arm, “I move around a lot for this job so I’m used to living in a perpetual state of ‘new kid’.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ned scoffs, “We’re friends!”

“Facebook friends.”

“You’ve been here for weeks, you’ve got at least another month left…”

“I’m actually busy tonight.”

“Doing what?”

“The owner of the motel I’m staying at said he’s gonna screen _Hope Floats _in the lobby, and asked me if I wanted to watch.”

“Yeah, you should probably get out of that,” Ned nods quickly, “I think she’s gonna murder you.”

And no, it does not sound like an ideal Friday night, not by any stretch of the imagination, and yes, maybe it did sound eerily similar to the opening of a true crime documentary to watch a rom-com with her crusty motel owner. But the idea of committing to a friendship she knows is mostly out of politeness? Scarier.

“If not because you want to, do it as a great service to your community,” Ned eyes her.

When MJ gives him a questioning glance, he elaborates, “Peter’s a sloppy drunk and without me there I worry for Pawnee’s future.”

She all but snorts with laughter at that.

“You don’t even have to get drunk!” Ned says, retreating down the hall to City Hall’s main exit, “Just stop the world from ever having to find out what allergies smell like in perfume form.”

“God, Flash, what is that smell?”

“That would be Flash Fresh, my new fragrance that I’m going to pitch to Dennis Feinstein,” Flash waves a small glass bottle in front of Peter’s face, and he resists the strong urge to gag. (Though ‘resists’ is a loose term, he thinks the gag is pretty apparent.)

“Maybe you should, uh,” Peter coughs, tucking his head into the top of the bar, “Refine that a bit more before you sell it.”

“That’s a stupid idea because 1— it’s already perfect and 2— I have to do it while Dennis is here.”

“Dennis is—“

“A legend,” Flash belts, “I own Attack, Yearning, Itch, Side-boob, Thickening and Coma.”

“You should probably see a doctor about that.”

“When Dennis smells Flash Fresh, I plan on subtly introducing to him my plans for a pop-up shop and list of brand ambassadors for our collaboration. I’ve started with—“

“Michelle?” Peter swings out of his seat and steps quickly to MJ, who has just entered the bar, “You came, _thank god_.”

“I heard it was the party of the century,” she flips her hair behind one shoulder, smile light and airy.

“Shh, you’ll feed his ego.” Peter quickly and without thinking (because if he had put any thought into it at all he would not have had the guts), grabs one of MJ’s hands and pulls her away from Flash’s long and drawn out celebrity list, and into a dark and retreated corner of the bar.

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you value your sense of smell,” Peter smirks.

“Why—“

“Wait for it…” Peter holds a hand up and eyes MJ as she settles back into the low couch, her feet crossed at her ankles and tucked under her.

After a moment, she sputters into her elbow, “Oh my god, what is that smell?”

Peter laughs and she coughs out the scent, mesmerized but the way the bright lights flash and bounce off her wild curls.

“We should get drunk.”

“God, at least buy me dinner first!”

“_How _much?”

“I know,” Peter slides the small white napkin on the bar, “This is the most expensive bar I’ve ever been to. You don’t remember from last time?”

“No, Peter, I don’t remember from last time, because _someone_ decided to forcefully kick me out.”

“I didn’t mean it!” Peter laughs, head tipping back, “I swear.”

“Yeah, well, I still went home sad and sober,” MJ laughs back at him, already two drinks in each and feeling the buzz.

“But I think I spent half my paycheck on beers that night, so, I actually idd your favor?”

“Oh really?” A giggle colors her voice and it pushes Peter’s drink count to three, no alcohol.

“Most overpriced bar in all of Indiana.”

“For what?” MJ yells, pitching forward, her face inches from Peter’s in the dark ver lighting, “To fund his perfume that would be made illegal by the FDA?”

“You know, this was supposed to be a night where we got drunk because of our crazy stressful jobs,” Peter has to take a breath when MJ tucks a piece of hair behind one ear and the movement exposes her long neck, “And _because _of our crazy stressful jobs, we can’t _afford_ to get drunk!”

“You’ve literally never sounded smarter.”

“I wanna get super drunk and buy you a drink, but I can’t because I’m a super broke government employee,” and it’s the truth, he wants to buy MJ a drink, full implications of that statement intended, but he’s Peter and he’s nervous so he hopes he can play it off as a part of the buzz.

“We don’t have to get super drunk,” MJ says, the giggle resurfacing, “I heard you’re sloppy, anyway.”

“Did Ned tell you that?”

“No comment…” MJ presses her lips together in a tight line, trying to bite back her smile in seriousness, “But I also recall you bowing and kissing my hand in greeting last time we were here.”

“Oh my god,” Peter whines, “Now I really need to get drunk.”

“Lucky for you,” MJ’s eyes dance, “I can get all the free drinks we need.”

“How?”

“I’m a moderately attractive girl in a sleazy club,” MJ shrugs, like its common sense, “Watch this…”

Peter watches her turn in her spot at the bar, lean an elbow on the tabletop and curl a finger around a lock of hair. She looks up at the man on her right under long and batting lashes, “I hate drinking alone.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” His answer comes too fast, and it makes Peter shift on his feet uncomfortable.

“Sure,” MJ says sweetly.

“What—“

“Triple whiskey.”

The bartender starts on her drink and the man tries to start up a conversation with MJ, “What’s your name?”

“Rhianna,” MJ nods seriously, and Peter has to take three steps back and bite his bottom lip.

“I’m Kevin.”

“And I’m tired,” MJ takes the glass that’s set down in front of her then tips her head to the side, “I think I’m gonna go drink alone.”

“But you said—“

“I said I’m gonna go drink alone, bye!” And with that she slides down the bar and back up to Peter wearing a triumphant smirk.

“You did not just do that.”

“Oh, but I did,” she says, her voice simmering into a low and confident hum, “See, we can be broke _and_ drunk.”

“I think we just became best friends,” he says without thinking, when she nudges the glass into his hand, and he almost immediately spills every drop of alcohol once it registers.

But maybe it flies over her head too or maybe the Flash Fresh has gone to her brain (or maybe she doesn’t want to disagree, because she likes the concept, but Peter’s less optimistic about this option), because she doesn’t disagree, just smiles and prods on.

“You take this one, and I am going to get myself a martini from that idiot over there.”

“I got these from the bathroom.”

“Mints?”

“Six of them,” Peter pushes the small pile towards her eagerly, and she rolls her eyes, “I’m finding a lot less people willing to buy me free drinks!”

“You’re hot you could do it!”

“You think I’m hot?”

She doesn’t answer him, just puts down a tray of pigs in a blanket, “You gotta get creative, Parker. I told a waiter I had a pork deficiency and he gave me all of these.”

“I can’t even lie to my house plants!” Peter yells, which cracks into a laugh when it makes MJ tip over in giggles, “How do you expect me to lie to unsuspecting drunk people?”

“I knew you didn’t have it in you, Parker—“

“Wait, I can—“

“So you _do_ have it in you?” She quirks, one brow arched in a way that sends heat to Peter’s core like she’s asking for a totally different sort of challenge. “Peter Parker knows how to have fun?”

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly, “And I can prove it.”

“Whoever can get the most free stuff by the end of the night wins.”

“Wins what?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’m gonna win so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Get a room, Parker-Jones!”

“Choke on Flash Fresh, Eugene!”

“Is that—“

“Six beers for table 12?” Peter drops a tray on the high top table where MJ stands.

“How did you—“

“This boring black t-shirt I wear every time I go out finally served it purpose,” Peter pulls at the hem of his shirt, “Thought I worked here and got handed the tray for delivery.”

“Okay, Parker,” MJ tips her head back and gulps down one of six beers, “I think we swapped luck. All I made out with was a jar of olives, a thing of toothpicks that look like swords…”

“And…”

“And 73 dollars in tips!”

“What!”

“Read ‘em and weep, nerd,” she slides her stack of singles at him, smug smile that doesn’t match the way she giggles at him.

“That makes no sense!”

“Nothing that’s happening right now makes sense!”

“Do you wanna dance?”

“Do I look like I wanna dance?”

“Okay, sorry,” MJ tucks a piece of hair behind her ear shyly, the alcohol coloring her cheeks a bright shade but the nerves still sheepishly adding to the color.

“Wait, no, I really wanna dance, I thought that was clear,” Peter stands and pulls her away and towards the center of the club.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“Was I not wearing my ‘I wanna dance’ face?”

And she hates the way it swirls up her insides and forces her to throw her head back with laughter. Hates it. Hates it a lot.

(She doesn’t hate it at all.)

“We should—“

“—Give it back.”

“Last one to the tip jar has to call the Uber?”

“It’s on, Jones.”

“You did _what_?”

“Yup,” Peter nods, nursing a hangover in an empty hospital bed at the end of Ned’s shift early the next morning.

“Dude—“

“I know,” Peter sighs, and drinks more water, “I know.”

When Peter isn’t thinking about MJ, he’s thinking about the Harvest Festival. And with the Harvest Festival coming up in just two weeks, that should be a really good thing.

The hitch in this logic is that MJ works very closely with him on said Harvest Festival. And therefore, most thoughts that aren’t about MJ and are instead about the Harvest Festival, end up being about MJ anyway.

It’s a cruel cycle.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” woman in question rounds into Peter’s office, “But it looks like these interviews are more important than we thought.”

“Awareness numbers are still low, but,” Flash starts, a spin flourish of his blazer collar, “I put up an 8”x11” poster that I hand designed on Microsoft Word in the Flashmob Lounge.”

“The Festival is saved,” MJ hums, her voice pinched and dry.

Peter reaches out for the papers in MJ’s hand and looks them over while Flash continues to bicker.

“35%?”

“It’s actually 34.2%.”

“I. Am. Michelle. The. Numbers. Robot.” Flash mimes and its a testament to the stress level in the office that Peter actually laughs at it.

“Shut up, I’m just trying to give you an accurate reading so we know what we’re up against.”

“Harrington worked out a solid Media Blitz schedule to advertise the Harvest Fest,” Peter assures her, “We’ve got TV, newspapers, radio, I even called Ellen.”

“We’re going on _Ellen_?” Flash’s eyes bug wide.

“No, I got a computer-generated response to my email,” Peter leans back in his chair, “But I’m putting it into the universe.”

“Well when you’re done being one with the universe,” Michelle quirks, “Send me all the times and places I have to be.”

“Hey guys, how was Jason?”

“There were some sticky moments—“

“Let’s go to the tape!”

They had a lot of ground to cover, and with just Peter, Flash and MJ on advertising duty, they had to divide and conquer. Peter went down to the Daily Bugle for a newspaper story and sent Flash and MJ to cover a radio show with local radio personality Jason Ionello (not Peter’s first choice for listening, but the people of Pawnee really liked him, in a quirky, simple, reminds-you-of-that-one-kid-from-high-school kind of way, so it worked.)

Peter did not forsee it being a problem, however what MJ had abundantly in every other facet (as far as Peter was concerned), she lacked severely in her on-screen personality.

_”To quote my colleague, Peter Parker, the Harvest Festival is like fun meets awesome meets agriculture.”_

_“Speaking of meeting, it’s so great to meet you, Michelle Jones. You’re a legend.”_

_“Oh no, I’m—“_

_“For our listeners who haven’t looked her up on Altavista yet, Michelle here was elected mayor of some kick town in Minnesota and blew the whole budget on an ice rink at just 18 years old.”_

_“See, I was a Kidd—and uh, the thing— the thing is, you know, how the, uh— stock market freezes, it just—“_

_“Oh my god, guys I wish you could see this!”_

_“We will also have ponies, at the Harvest Festival! And a corn maze.”_

_“I, uh, it’s—“_

_“We got a caller! Say hi, you’re on the air!”_

_“Hey, isn’t 18 a little young to be mayor? What were you, like, 12?”_

_“The funny— when— I guess— the fortunate— can we just sort of—“_

_“I mean, who hasn’t had gay thoughts?”_

_“You okay?”_

_“Yeah fine, I just sometimes feel like— like I might need glasses.”_

_“Is there a bird in here? I swear, I keep seeing a bird— nope, its a spider, spider crawling on me.”_

_“Excuse me for being elected at 18! It’s not my fault! Cindy had just turned me down for senior prom and do you know how that feels? I don’t think you do! Should I call her? No, no that would be— but I’m a strong independent woman so I could— no—“_

“And then the show ended, and probably our careers…” Flash claps his hands together at the head of the conference room table, “And the Harvest Festival.”

“Michelle, what happened?”

She sinks into her chair, head tucked into her elbows on the table. Flash answers instead, “She was fine until Jason brought up the Mayor thing!”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Liz runs into the room, “I got held up in my office. I _swore _there was a _bird _in there!”

The office laughs with her as she settles into a seat. MJ’s voice is muffled in the crook of her elbow, still slumped on the table, “How did you know about that?”

“It’s all over social media,” Liz settles her laugh, “I can’t tell if its a good thing or a bad thing.”

“I’m leaning towards bad.”

“Catastrophic.”

“Well at least people are talking about us,” Liz shrugs.

“They’re talking about me. Half a dozen businesses threatened to pull their sponsorships on the ride back here.”

“We’ll be fine,” Peter hums, a hand on MJ’s back, “I’m _positive_.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“The Parker Positive Spin!”

“The what?” MJ sits up, her curls bouncing wildly.

“The Parker Spin is a classic and borderline insane technique Peter uses to make everything look sunshine and rainbows.”

“The technique,” Liz starts, “Is that there’s no technique, just Red Bull and adrenaline.”

“So it turns out Betty went to high school with Jason,” Peter says, “So he’s agreed to take the interview off his website and set Liz and I up to do a red-do with one of his partner shows on the station.”

“We have a few more print interviews and spreads so those should be fine,” Harrington adjusts his schedule, “The only thing we haven’t addressed is _Pawnee Today_.”

“Just cancel it,” MJ slumps.

“You can’t cancel _Pawnee Today_!” Flash shrieks, “Brad Davis runs this town.”

“Brad Davis—?”

“Brad Davis is the host of _Pawnee Today_ and essentially does the thinking for everyone who watches it. Which is everyone in Pawnee.”

“Do not let his smile that twinkles like he’s in a toothpaste commercial fool you,” Liz warns, “He’s ruthless and conniving and used to work at the library, which makes him awful. And he’s extremely well-read, which makes him dangerous. The worst kind of person, really.”

“Also likes calzones, so you’ll get along fine.”

“I’m not going,” MJ says.

“Yes, you are, we’re a team, you need to be there,” Peter says, grabbing his belongings and rallying everyone out the door, “We’re all going. Parks on three!”

“We’re not doing the chant.”

“Never gonna work, Parker.”

“Hello, and welcome to _Pawnee Today. _I’m Brad Davis, and joining us today we have Peter Parker, to tell us about the upcoming Harvest Festival, and how its going to bankrupt the city.”

Peter clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in the plush green chair, stage lights blinding him, “Well, Brad, there’s actually a lot of false information going around right now—“

“Just jumping right in,” Brad grits, eyes wide, and a mumble of “Rude.”

Peter continues, “I just want everyone to know what an extraordinary event this is going to be.”

“But at what cost?” Brad questions, “How many towns is Michelle Jones going to destroy before she is put behind bars?”

And Peter has always thought Brad Davis was just about the worst thing next to ever happen to human kind as a species, but nothing seethes him the way this interview has already started off. He’s positive he just can’t stay positive about it anymore, not when they’re attacking MJ like this.

“Okay, you know what,” Peter starts, fists clenched but the arms of the chair, “Michelle has done nothing wrong, and I want you all to see that,” he bounces in the seat and nudges his hands in his lap, “MJ? Come out? We’ll answer all your questions?”

“Just run my whole show, Peter,” Brad nods, bitter.

MJ shakes her head viscously behind the camera, eyes blown wide, but Peter insists, and eventually she’s being pushed out my several parks employees and onto the soundstage.

“Looks like we’ve got a caller, why don’t you take that, Michelle,” Peter shrugs with his left shoulder, MJ settling into the seat at his side, and tentatively leans to press the call button.

“Hi, I just wanna know how you can justify raising taxes for this event?”

The caller’s question hangs, but MJ just makes a fishy motion with her lips, opening and closing her mouth with no sound coming out.

Peter smiles towards the camera, “Well we’re not justifying it because _we’re not raising taxes_. So, that’s that,” Peter taps both his feet, “Next question?”

“Why should we trust this Michelle Jones lady?”

“Because, I’m, trust, very trusty,” she chokes, and Peter quickly switches to the next caller.

“Hi there, I just looked Michelle up on Altavista, and it says the last seven towns she worked in were bankrupt.”

And maybe Peter imagines it, maybe it’s a symptom of his MJ brain that consumes him with MJ-only thoughts, but he sees something shift in her eyes at the end of that caller’s statement, something fiery and determined and a whole lot closer to the terrifying state auditor from all those months ago.

“Okay, first of all, why does everyone in this town use Altavista? Is it 1997?” Michelle sits upright in her chair, one elbow on the arm of the chair, her left foot tucks and her right lightly knocking against Peter’s.

“And second,” she says, a heat to her voice, “I am a budget specialist. _It is my job _to go to cities that are bankrupt. And every time I leave they are no longer bankrupt.”

Get it MJ, kick ass, take no prisoners!

“And lastly, yes, I screwed up when I was 18, but doesn’t everyone?” She says, eyes that flit from the camera to Brad, and Peter thinks he looks a little bit in awe, and a little terrified. No one has ever been able to shut up Pawnee’s golden boy Brad Davis. Not until MJ.

“Next question?”

“Could you tell me more about the corn maze? And are dogs allowed?”

Peter sits back in his chair and smiles.

He’s positive they’ll be just fine.

“Sorry about that whole mess,” MJ tips into Peter’s office, the rest of the Parks Department dark and empty, its employees home for the weekend. But there Peter sits, his computer screen illuminating his face.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Peter instantly brightens when he sees her, nothing to do with the screen, “Crisis totally averted. Told you we’d be fine.”

“You are something else, Parker,” MJ leans her head on the office’s doorframe, arms crossed at her chest, “Most people would have cursed me and wished death on everyone I love dear for something like that.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No, you’re really not,” she smiles, “You hungry?”

“I have a few more things to finish up—“

“It’s really late and you haven’t eaten,” MJ says, “You need food to survive.”

“I thought you learned after flu season that standard rules of survival don’t apply to me,” he says, but MJ watches the lights on his screen fade like maybe he’s going to listen to standard rules for once.

“C’mon. You need to eat, it’s on me.”

He mulls it over for a second, slinging some things into his bag and pushing his desk chair in, then says, “Okay, there’s a really good calzone place in Idiotville on Terrible Idea Avenue we could go to.”

MJ punches him square on the shoulder when he passes by her in the doorway, “Oh really, because I thought it was on Beating A Dead Horse Boulevard.”

Peter’s expression suddenly falls serious, “Calzones are pointless. They’re just pizzas that are harder to eat and no one like them.”

He stops right in front of her, their bodies practically flush in the little doorway of the Parks and Recreation Department, all alone, on a Friday night. And it sounds like something wonderful and embarrassing that MJ conjured up in her head, if it had not been for the straight up mortified looks he’s sending her about calzones.

He cracks in under thirty seconds.

“I’m kidding, let’s go!”

He pulls her by the wrist out the door, and all of MJ’s romantic sensations are restored.

She’s positive she’s not going to handle this fine at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in light of recent events (NYFW), i imagine MJ wearingly solely power suits in this career and it does a lot to me... so if you want to also experience the gay panic that i did, reread this with the image of zendaya in /that/ suit (you know which one) and thank me later


End file.
